


Crowned, Collared, Chained

by twofoldAxiom



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Accents, Alternate Universe - Derse/Prospit Royalty, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society (Homestuck), Alternate Universe - No Game, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Camp Nanowrimo, Derse and Prospit, Dubious Ethics, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fictional Religion & Theology, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Gore, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Isolation, Kingdomstuck, Language Barrier, Language Kink, M/M, Magical Charisma, Manipulation, Master/Slave, Mild Gore, Necromancy, Nightmares, Non-Human Genitalia, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Partial Mind Control, Poetry, Poisoning, Sexual Slavery, Stockholm Syndrome, Threats of Violence, Trolls (Homestuck), Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2020-05-31 15:38:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19428979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofoldAxiom/pseuds/twofoldAxiom
Summary: Prospit has conquered Derse and its noble houses.Dirk Strider, King of Derse, gives himself to the Emperor of Prospit as a plaything, hoping to save the few people he calls family. Dave Strider, second to the throne, is given to a Prospitian General who's called for the slaughter of thousands, and yet who can't bear to treat him like a common slave.Roxy Lalonde, royal alchemist, finds her craft and her skill in the employ of the Emperor's younger brother, working for him in a bid for freedom. Rose Lalonde, royal seer, finds an unlikely ally in a Prospitian noblewoman, trading secrets and portents for something that could be love.Interconnected stories; appearances kept, expectations faced, and people broken and remade.(Camp NaNoWrimo July 2019 entry)





	1. Dirk Strider

**Author's Note:**

> I've had the ideas for the aesthetic and setting and some of the characters boiling around in my head for a while, but they never really made it anywhere until now. Thanks to the various Discord servers I'm in for ideas, in particular Belvedere, Suzbot, Essynkardi, Cassa, princeofnight, coinageFission, Kris, Madame Hardy, and WildwoodMage!
> 
> Lord help us all, but at least I only plan on 30k words this time.
> 
> EDIT JULY 8, 2019:  
> To be clear I mean "I mean to write 30k this month", not that this story will end in only 30k words. If it ends in 30k words? Yeah, I'm cool with that. If it goes further? The stars are my limit.

Your name is Dirk Strider and with every heavy, dragging step towards the sunlight of the courtyard, you mull over how you have more regrets to count on each one.

You regret being so hard on your little brother as you grew up, and now you can't say anything about it. You regret never telling Roxy, in no uncertain terms, that she's your best friend. You regret that you never mended your relationship with either of your fathers before they died of witchrot. You regret that you couldn't protect those so important to you, that you were too weak to sacrifice yourself for their sake.

Well, you _intended_ to die protecting your family and friends in a desperate and tragic bid to help them escape the clutches of captivity or execution, but that went tits up about halfway through the attempt. It's not that you were afraid to die- you were already pretty gravely injured by that point- you just couldn't stand dying in front of them.

Make no mistake, you could still die, easily, if you annoy these _very heavily armed_ knights enough. You just also regret being the King of Derse that history is going to write down as having been captured alive by Prospitian forces, and- most likely- decapitated in front of the remainders of his broken army.

Or at least you assume they're going to decapitate you. The piles of headless bodies kind of make it seem like someone in the Prospitian ranks has a thing for decapitations.

You glance over at Dave, stony-faced but his lips are blue with terror. You look sidelong at Roxy who's already singing under her breath, which is always a pretty bad sign for her nerves. You look to Rose, whose eyes meet yours.

You don't speak, you'd all made a pact that they wouldn't hear any begging or desperation from a single one of you, but you can imagine what she might say to you if you hadn't. She would, in her backhanded way, tell you it wasn't your fault, and that she's already thinking of how to escape from the guards and flee with your lives. You would inform her, if you could, that you'd tried every possible option that didn't involve a miracle, and that was before they'd removed you from your cell.

Sunlight hits you in the face, hot and shocking as a slap. Why did they have to invade Derse at the height of summer?

You blink in the glare of the courtyard and find it full of masked soldiers, talking among themselves mostly, but then silent and straight-backed as you're marched down the stone steps. Their eerie faces of hammered steel and their domed, maille-backed helmets make it impossible to tell human from troll. Eyes of all colors are on you and the few remainders of the Noble Houses of Derse.

The one unmasked face is the Emperor of Prospit himself. You'd heard about the previous Empress Harley, shrewd and ruthless, her reign long and prosperous, her colonies spread far and wide. Enemies and allies despaired of her might, but she'd never turned her attentions to Derse.

You could assume the worst of her successor, but, wow.

You didn't expect him to be so easy on the eyes.

Back that up a bit. He's about to kill you. He's speaking with one of the masked soldiers, likely one of his generals judging by the mask being considerably nicer than the common soldiers', if a lot creepier, and you don't catch what they're saying but you assume it's got something to do with why you were brought out of your cell. You could probably figure it out if given the time, but, you don't have time.

Their tone changes and you stiffen, standing a little straighter, positioning yourself between the Emperor and your remaining family just a little more. You can't hope for mercy, but-

The tealblood yanks your chains and you stumble. A murmur goes through the gathered contingent. Chuckles. A few things you recognize as numbers from your studies, a susurrus of what sounds like nothing to you. One of the Emperor's advisers murmurs to him and he snaps at her, and you can recognize it's Prospitian but you've never _heard_ it before, you can't place what you're hearing. You really need to stop being so fascinated right just now.

He faces you again and you glare back up at him. You think maybe that shakes him a little, that you meet his eyes, because he looks unsure. Good. Let him question himself before he finishes you off. Let your defiance be the last thing you give him.

His gold-trimmed armor glints like scales as he moves, the maille so fine it almost sways like weighted fabric. But you only glance at it once, because you're not going to look away from him for a second as he takes your life.

He stands before you, taller than you expected and yet more human than you could imagine. Beautiful, yes, but not the god-king of a distant Empire come to usurp your territories.

"You have a choice." He says, in perfect, only barely accented Dersite.

You blink in surprise, actually pull your head back a little, and your mouth hangs ever so slightly open.

"We aren't without mercy. Your people will prosper under the rule of Prospit, but I can't let you rule. You have a choice: Surrender your freedom to me or be killed."

"You speak Dersite?" You murmur, almost under your breath. His sentence structure is a little archaic, sure, but it's otherwise shockingly good. He pauses, and then smiles, and it's disarmingly warm, not the wicked, sharp-edged thing you'd expected.

"In time I won't need to. But it makes it easier to talk to you and conquer you, to speak in your native language, correct?" His tone is so at odds with his words that it sends a shiver up your spine. "None of my cohort are as fluent as I, at least not yet. They will learn and we will..." He mutters something, searching. "Assimilate. Absorb. We will be good to you and your people. But you must choose. It is my mercy to you, King Strider."

"Dirk, excuse me, but what the fuck?" Rose hisses beside you. For once in your life, you're treated to the sight of her careful, mysterious facade cracking in shock, and you never want to see it again. Dave and Roxy look at each other, but they're a little further back and can't hear a word of what the Emperor just said, you think.

His eyes bore into you, greener than anything you've ever seen. You see yourself reflected in them, a little gaunter, a little paler, a little more scarred, and this is _not_ the impression you wanted to give.

You spit in his face. He touches the slime dripping off his cheek, and looks up at you, looking just a little disappointed.

"I would rather die." You hiss. You see him shudder and think, smugly, that he's really a lot less than an Emperor should be. You think, he must have taken the throne recently, and not very likely under his own merit either. He wipes away the spit and narrows his eyes, and you glare back, renewed in your resolve. "I would rather my teeth and fingernails yanked out, my whole body flayed of skin, my eyes burned from my skull before I would bow to you. The choice to surrender? That's cruelty, not mercy."

Rose looks livid. Dave's lips are pressed in a straight, thin line, and Roxy has started twisting her chains between her fingers. You bare your teeth and snap them in his face.

He doesn't back away. "You don't understand."

"I understand perfectly." He glances between you and the others, and you try to make yourself that much more of an obstruction in his sight.

He frowns. It looks petulant, childish, on such a young face, even with his square jaw and full lips and wow, you really need to stop staring at his lips. He almost pouts, but you don't want to call it pouting. But then he smooths it away and turns to face his advisers, rattling something off sharply to them.

Swords are drawn. Dave stands stock still, Rose swears. Roxy shrieks in nervous terror at the sound of steel being unsheathed.

And all the while, the Emperor still looks to you.

"You don't understand. I can't let you rule, and I can't let you leave this place with your freedom. None of you are allowed to leave without allegiance to me." He looks almost regretful, but the lines of his mouth are hard and all the mercy he was ready to show you is gone. He pleads with you to reconsider, you think, but you can't hear anything else when you hear Dave grunt in pain and you assume the worst.

You can't do this. You can't hold onto a meaningless crown just to watch them all die. Your pride isn't worth that, not when it's Rose and Roxy, not when it's your brother, your _family_.

"Wait."

He holds up a hand and you swallow around a lump in your throat. Sweat trickles down the side of your face, gathering dirt as it drips down your neck. He tilts your face up with his thumb and forefinger, the metal of his gauntlet only slightly cooler than the air in the sweltering summer heat.

"Speak." He says. Your tongue wants to tie itself in a knot, or rip itself out of your mouth, but you speak. You can feel all eyes on you- Rose and Roxy and Dave especially, their betrayal, their dismay.

 _I'm sorry_.

_I can't do that to you._

You take a deep breath.

"I yield. You have my kingdom and my crown."

He sighs and calls off the blades, but then an adviser comes to him and murmurs something else in his ear. Again, that look of uncertainty, like he isn't quite sure what's expected of him, but he steels himself.

You stare, blankly. Something very like fear creeps up inside you, but you do your best not to show it, and you have to give yourself a little credit that your voice doesn't so much as crinkle, let alone crack. "What else is there for me to give?" You say. "You have my people and my kingdom, as I said, and I hold you to that promise of their prosperity, or my soul will never let you rest should you break it."

"You don't have to worry about your soul, my dear." You feel your skin crawl just a little more as he says that. It's hard to breathe, suddenly. The world spins.

"What's going to happen to us?"

You turn your head. That was Dave, and even though he's shaky on his feet- someone had a hand in his hair, his sunglasses set askew, red eyes squinting in the unforgiving sun, but he's standing and he's looking at you- even though he shivers, he's still trying to look like he's not afraid. You're all afraid, especially after how close that brush was.

The Emperor finally looks away from you, and you let yourself study him a little more, the crease of his brow and the sweep of his nose in profile. He swallows, thickly, and you can see the bob of his throat so clearly just under his chin. He looks far too young for this, and he's got your lives in his hands. Why did an Emperor even come to conquer a place like Derse personally?

He turns away from all of you and barks an order- you recognize the structure of the words, but nothing more, at least until the guards pull you away again. You expect to be taken to your cell, but you don't expect the guards to take all of you in separate directions. You share one last look with Dave, his eyes half-blinded by the light but fixed on you, betrayed.

You don't look over your shoulder at the Emperor, but you wonder what life you've sentenced all of you to living. The soldiers are solemn around you with none of the snickering and wagering from earlier, or at least none that you can see. Do they smile behind their masks, or are they scowling your way.

For the first time in days, for the first time since the fall of your kingdom and the capture of your family, perhaps, you wonder what will come for you. You wonder if it's something like hope. You wonder if you're a traitor for hoping, and you hate not knowing what you're hoping for.

~!~

They don't take you to your cell, is the thing.

You're taken to the baths, _your_ baths, and you find the very thought of taking a hot bath right now simultaneously insulting, humiliating, and deeply welcome. You haven't exactly had the time to pamper yourself during the war, and especially not since you've been locked in a dank cell for a week by now. (It’s not even really a cell, but an emptied out cellar, cold and unforgiving and without a drop of wine or cordial left to make you feel better about it.)

You still don't appreciate when the guards, one stone-faced, one leering, cut you out of your clothes and throw you unceremoniously into one of the baths set into the floor. The hot water is downright shocking, and you didn't even get the chance to scrub yourself before getting in. You flail and consider drowning yourself.

But you pull yourself up for air and they're gone.

You test the door. Locked.

Your clothes are in gone besides, the guards must have taken the remains with them, and they didn't leave you any towels or robes in here, nothing to tie or braid together to use as a garrotte should someone try to check on you. It's humid and the windows are too high and narrow to climb through, designed that way to keep the heat from escaping even on the chilliest nights. No sharp implements. No glass. Someone even removed all the oils that could be used to poison someone properly.

You actually try busting the door down by ramming it with your body, and all you succeed in doing is bruising yourself from shoulder to knee on one side. Fuck. One more time, you check the lock and look for something, anything, to pick it with.

Is this some kind of joke? It's a sick one, which you can appreciate, but you're not too happy about it being played on you.

At least the lamps are lit. You consider burning down the door... but no, it would be too moist for that even if the lamps used oil instead of candles in here. And they lit all of them, too. The smell of citrus and honey is so thick you can feel it pressing in on you. It might have been comforting in any other situation.

Fuck. Fine.

If they want you to have a bath, you'll have a goddamned bath. You're staying in here until they get sick of it. In fact, you're staying in here until _you_ get sick of it, and being that you haven't bathed in at least a week, you're going to take your sweet time getting thoroughly re-familiarized with bath oils and shampoo before you decide you're done with them.

It seems ridiculous to have feared for your life just a little while ago and now you're scrubbing at your grimy self like nothing happened. The worst part is that you can't help but wonder how the others are doing. Is this the kind of torture they have in mind for you? Leaving you alone with yourself? You have to hand it to the Prospitians for knowing exactly how to torment you in particular.

You drain the tub and refill it, pouring in just a bit of rose essence to cut through the cloying smell of oranges from the candles. You even blow some of the flames out before you get in the tub proper, watching soap bubbles dissolve on contact with the warm water.

It's soothing no matter how much you don't want it to be, and no matter how much you try to stay tense and vigilant, you sink in up to your shoulders and close your eyes.

You think of Dave's face and furrow your brow. You think of Roxy, and you really hope her guards are at least a little less eager to get their hands on her. You shudder at the thought.

You think of the trouble Rose could get herself into if left to her own devices with anything even _resembling_ a weapon within reach.

...

Nope. You just can't relax.

You slap the water irritably, watching the steam rise while you fill up on impotent rage.


	2. Dave Strider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT JULY 2, 2019: Fucked up a little with the descriptions of Karkat's mask. Fixed it now.
> 
> So far so good. As usual, tell me if I need to tag anything!
> 
> Karkat's grammar is weird because he's speaking Dersite. When I write from his and other Prospitians' POV, he'll probably speak Prospitian and sound more like his usual self.
> 
> Also there's a space between mother and fucker in one part because he basically said mother and fucker as two separate concepts.
> 
> NEW TAGS: Stockholm Syndrome, Isolation, Nightmares
> 
> Stockholm syndrome actually comes later, but I figured it'd be safer to tag it now.

You are now Dave Strider, once second to the throne of Derse and now... well, you don't really know where to go from here, or what awaits you later, or Hell, you don't think you're going to get any answers about the trajectory of your life besides the possibility of a painful demise any time soon, which, okay, cool, you're not scared shitless but you're definitely not looking forward to that either.

This entire endeavor, this invasion, the slaughter of so many of your people- it's been a nightmare from start to finish, and you've had nightmares up and down this whole shebang so you would definitely know what you're talking about. Literally. The nightmares had started a month before the Prospitian invasion force came a-knocking. Rose had told you it was an omen, Roxy had given you tincture after bitter tincture that only made you forget them on waking. Dirk had told you things would be okay, that he was handling it.

You're only the second born Prince of Derse, but you still feel kind of like a failure for letting everyone handle things while you were sick with lack of sleep. You guess that's just how things fall now, though, because you're even more helpless than when you'd started. 

It's almost a relief to be thrown back into a makeshift cell, away from the people, light, and noise. The only problem is you don't know how long you can stay awake. You're exhausted down to your aching, grinding bones, and you're pretty sure the last of Roxy's dreamless potions have run their course and are out of your system by now.

Fuck.

You sit on the pallet they'd at least provided you, rubbing your arms as best you can with bound hands. There's a window in here, so you're getting fresh air, but the claustrophobia still closes in way too easy, and you're too high up for climbing down to be a feasible plan. You wonder what that crowned asshole told Dirk, for all of you to have been taken away instead of executed on the spot, but you're not feeling charitable about the situation.

You don't know at what point you lie down and close your eyes. The nightmares come as expected, but by now you can almost take comfort in them- at least you know what to expect, even when, in the nightmare itself, you're shitting yourself in fear. 

You see yourself on the battlefield, beside Dirk. You see yourself as if an outsider, hovering over your broken, bloody body as the last remnants of breath struggle out of your perforated lungs, and you can _feel_ the air whistling between your exposed ribs. Spit and blood bubbles around your mouth. Your eyes roll madly in your skull.

Dirk kneels beside you, his crown tarnished and heavy on his brow, and raises a dagger high, the steel glinting in the sun.

You see it come down, but never feel it make contact. Three sharp knocks on the door rattle your teeth in your skull, and you gasp for air like you've nearly just drowned. Your ribs are still inside you, so that's good news, and you're back in this fucking storage closet, but that's about ll the good news afforded to you.

You look out the window at the setting sun and feel the night breeze wafting warmly against your cheeks. You passed out around midday, didn't you? Your gut clenches with hunger, like it always seems to be lately no matter how much you eat.

The door opens.

Dumbly, you stare at the figure in the doorway. The same Prospitian from this morning, the one you'd (sort of) seen talking to that unmasked motherfucker. He's not wearing his helmet this time, so you can see the tips of his grey ears, and the little horns poking up from a mess of dark hair, so small that at first you think they must have been filed.

He kept his mask on, though, that awful thing that covers everything but his eyes, and the heavy, ornate gorget around his neck and shoulders. You blink at him and realize he's brought you a meal, some strips of bread and dried meat and a wooden cup. Careful not to bring you anything that could be easily broken or rewound into any kind of weapon. Cup even had its handle broken off, or maybe he found it that way.

Not that you'd be any good with an improvised weapon, of course; you're not Dirk or Rose.

His voice rings crystal clear in a way you hadn't expected with a metal mask in the way. Rolling r's and rounded syllables. When you blink at him and don't get up he sighs, heavily, and speaks again. You can guess it's a question, at least, with the way he turns it up at the end.

You don't know how to speak Prospitian. Not even enough to _say_ you don't speak Prospitian. He tosses the bread at you and you catch it with practiced ease, and he mimes putting it to your lips before putting the rest on the floor.

It's a long quiet moment, where you think he's expecting you to say something, before he turns around and closes the door again. He made sure to stack the bread and meat on top of the cup, where it wouldn't touch the floor.

You stare after him.

They don't normally feed you until _after_ sundown.

You slide yourself off your bed and look down at the bread in your hands. It's... dry, yeah, and crustier than you're used to. But it doesn't look moldy at all, and doesn't smell like anything's been done to it. You break it apart in your hands even, sniffing the pieces, and you can't detect anything like bitterness or sourness that might be poison.

Doesn't do not to be careful, though; Dirk taught you as much. You scrape your finger on a protruding chip of stone in the window and rub the bread into the abrasion, and then break off another piece and put it under your tongue. No itching or burning in either case, not even when you wait until the light goes down and only the lanterns in the courtyard illuminate the room. You swallow the bread in your mouth and do the same to the meat.

It smells spicy and slightly sweet, even a little like cooked sugar. You don't know if that's the way it's made or just something to hide whatever might be in it, but regardless, even with the hunger gnawing you open, you toss it out the window. You watch it fall into the shrubbery below and sigh, eating the bread and sipping the water, slowly so you don't make yourself even sicker. 

You don't know why you bother. Or, well, you do, because you _really_ don't want to die just yet, even if you don't know what might come next. Maybe the nightmares are getting to you. Maybe you're just too scared and tired to do anything but survive.

~!~

You don't see the Prospitian who gave you a snack again the next day, and you don't see your family again either. You hear things from beneath your prison, though, in Dersite and Prospitian, mixed and garbled together. You understand maybe a third of what's being said at a time, when the wind is favorable and there's more Dersite than whatever else mixed in there.

_King's probably dead... nobles killed... things changing for... well, good riddance... new reign, under Prospit... what are we going to do?... things won't change, not for us... what will we do?_

You wish you could call down to someone, anyone, for help or for some measure of human contact, but every time they surmise that your family is dead, every time you so much as _think_ about them being dead, you get such a lump in your throat that you can't bear to make a sound.

At least you're let out of your cell sometime after sundown again, but this time you're not taken through the courtyard. You're confused until you're shoved into a bathing chamber, your clothes cut away and the door locked behind you. The water's running hot already, so someone's been making sure the furnace is well fed at least, even in the height of summer. Is it hotter in Prospit or something? You can't really imagine the water _needing_ to run hot, though then again, it's probably to boil the stink off you.

You're about halfway through shampooing your hair when you hear someone come in, the door opening so quietly and softly that it's almost lost in the sound of running water. Hair prickles on the back of your neck as the door closes again. Footsteps sliding across the mosaic tiled floor approach you from behind.

"You should probably know I can hear you." You say, when they're about halfway across the floor. What surprises you then is that they speak in Prospitian, and you recognize that voice, crystal clear and just as cutting; maybe moreso now. You dunk your head under the spray of water from one of the wall spouts and turn your head to look at him.

He crosses his arms, the Prospitian troll who'd given you food; you recognize him by the little horns poking up through a mess of dark hair. It actually frizzes up more in the humid heat of the baths. You're kind of out of it too, obviously, because it takes you about half a minute of silence and then an almost demure cough from him before you realize you've got everything hanging out where you're facing him.

You don't sink into the water like he's probably expecting, instead walking up the steps to get out of the pool so you've got everything hanging out where he can see it, daring him to make something of it. He makes a valiant effort not to look below the waist but fails. You put your hands on your hips for good measure while he rattles something off at you in Prospitian.

You grin. "Can't understand a word but I'm gonna assume you're complimenting the goods." You say, coming a little closer. His eyes flicker down again and he mutters something that could be a swear before looking up at you again. Actually, he's also fully dressed aside from the lack of armor, maybe even more dressed than most with how he's still wearing his gorget and a mask, even if it's a different, mouthless mask this time. You'll take whatever advantage in this conversation you can get. "Not sure if you can understand what I'm saying either, but that's never stopped me before; talk dirty to me all you want and I'll probably figure it out just by sheer exposure, if you know what I mea-"

"Not even a little shame, have you, mother fucker?" Oh, he speaks Dersite, well that's just great isn't it? He frowns. "Wanted sure if you finished your bath. Too long, we thought, and you drowned like stupid bitch child."

Your bravado deflates with a pathetic whimper. He growls at you and you suddenly want to get back in the water.

"You know, I was going to say something else, but now I'm thinking that's not the greatest idea." You say. 

"Not shit?" He laughs. It almost sounds like barking, echoing in the room. "Finish your bath. Will come see again if you drowned or not. Be alive when I look."

You gulp. Not in the least because that accent is, to your surprise, really doing it for you. Also you're still naked, and you're really glad he's stopped looking beyond the general area of your face.

Wow. Has it really been that long since you got laid? Has it really been so long that you're thirsting after a troll who's likely murdered or ordered the murder of hundreds of Dersites?

This is a member of the army that took over your home and your body decided that, instead of rage, you're going to want to bone down because he sounds pretty. You are filled with a sudden deep revulsion, both towards him and yourself, enough so that it probably shows on your face because he snaps his fingers in front of your eyes when you go quiet for too long.

"Yeah, no, I won't drown." You say, and then you feel stupid for saying it. You look him over instead, tired-looking and sweating or maybe just damp from the vapor of the baths. You laugh at the insanity of what you're about to say. 

"How about you stick around and make sure I don't?"

He sputters. You laugh as he glares at you, but then he moves to leave and, well.

"Actually, no, wait."

He pauses. "You want to waste my time some more?" He says.

"No I mean- I meant it about wanting you to stick around." He laughs again and you feel heat flush your face. "Not like that, man, I'm not perving on you and fuck you, you're the one who was sneaking up on me, it's like..."

Well, at least you can see you've got his attention. It makes you a little sick, of course, to think of _why_ he would be listening. Some kind of power trip, huh, getting one of the royals of Derse in this position in the first place.

Fucker.

You decide to get some answers instead. You're not lonely. You're completely okay with spending less time without human or troll contact, as it were, but you need to figure out this guy's motives, alright?

You take a deep breath.

"I didn't get to find out why you brought me food yesterday." You say. You see him tense up a little, tightness in his neck and shoulders, ears swivelling back like an upset cat. "I don't mean to interrogate you, alright? I just want to know what brought that up. I've never met you before, I don't know why you brought me food. I don't know if you're fattening me up for some feast or some shit like that, which by the way, I would taste awful so don't take that as a suggestion."

"... You talk too much." He says, and turns to face you again. "I can stay for some time, but only some; you finish bathing and then we leave."

That's more than you could have reasonably expected, as far as a response goes, though you're confused about why he's rushing your bath in particular. You don't think you're entirely comfortable with what you've just done. You can feel the judgement of the entire kingdom on your shoulders just thinking about it, but...

No, you're not lonely. You just need a listening ear, and maybe to hear a voice that isn't the nightmares for a little while. Talking to him will keep you awake. That's what you need right just now, and you're apparently going with him after this besides. Might as well stall.

He says something in Prospitian. A _lot_ of something if you're being honest, which you think is completely unfair, and then shakes his head.

"... My name is Karkat Vantas." He says. You didn't exactly prompt him, but alright, you can work with that. You dunk your head in the water and don't come up for air until your lungs burn, blinking away the droplets that cling to your eyelashes.


	3. Roxy Lalonde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly late because I went swimming yesterday and this module I'm studying involves Dostoevsky (fuck you), but I finally finished!
> 
> First attempt at writing Roxy Lalonde in any meaningful capacity. ;w;
> 
> Also this is like, the third fic where I've written John as some kind of manipulative? I don't even view him as a bad guy this kind of just keeps happening.
> 
> (Also, Roxy continues the pattern of being slightly horny for the Prospitians. Rose will break the pattern by being _very_ horny, probably.)
> 
> New tags:  
> Emotional Manipulation  
> Manipulation  
> Poisoning

It took a little quick thinking and sleight of hand, but you're slick as an oiled duck and now you're free of your cell to boot. At least, you know, for now. Staying that way is the hard part.

Maybe if things were different you'd feel a _little_ sorry for the Prospitian guard you just poisoned with a bad case of intestinal distress and probably a panic attack, but you're not up for sticking around to check and he was drinking on the job besides. You didn't have anything less nasty or at least more exact on hand than the little bits of black, drippy mushroom under the bench in your cell, what were you going to do about it? Lucky you that it's common inkcap. Not so lucky for him.

You can comfort yourself knowing he won't die, you know, if you didn't misjudge exactly how much booze the guy had in him. That you escaped is the important part here, and now you can look for Rose, Dirk, and Dave. 

Or you could cut your losses and just leave, but you're not that kind of gal.

You peep around the corner, down the corridor leading to one of the exits, chains clutched tight in your hands so they don't jangle. You've never been more freaked out in your life, honestly; you're the royal alchemist, not a _poisoner_ , and the difference is fucking with your concentration a lot more than you really need right about now, thanks. Still, by some grace of the gods- wow, you really have been hanging out with Rose too much- the hallway is empty.

You skulk to the door as quickly and quietly as you can. So far so good. Maybe you really do have a shot at getting everyone out of the palace and past the Eastern border of Derse, towards the sea, though you don't really know where you'll go after that.

(Maybe don't think so far ahead right now, but you need _something_ to keep you going.)

(You try not to think about being the only one left and fail miserably; the thought punches the breath right out of you like a fist to the solar plexus, and even though you're too close to your cell to give yourself a break, you feel your throat tighten up with it.)

(Keep it together, babe; they wouldn't do that to you, right?)

You breathe, in then out then in again, measuring it out three seconds each so you don't hyperventilate. You push open the door just a little, just enough to squeeze through as quietly as you can, and boom, you're in the garden, so your luck hasn’t run out yet. At least aside from not having any idea where anyone else is, but you gotta take this one step at a time or you're not getting anything done.

Alright, first step in your however-many-steps-it-takes plan to get everyone to safety, and this is time sensitive as fuck, you need to find out where they put Rose. Not near you, obviously, and you don't want to waste time, effort, and potential escape routes on guesswork, so the _actual for real_ first step is finding someone who'll tell you.

You can do this. You can handle this. Nothing is going to stop you, or else your name isn't Roxy Lalonde.

A hand drops heavily onto your shoulder and you would probably have jumped halfway into the upper layers of the atmosphere if it weren't for its grip on you. Instead you turn to see an unmasked Prospitian with a _really_ close resemblance to the Emperor, and heavily consider changing your name. Bright blue eyes glance between your face, and then your hair, and then the shackles around your wrists, and then he asks you (probably) what the Hell now you're doing out of your cell.

"Um. Nice night for a walk?" You say, before trying to take advantage of the element of surprise to punch him in the gut and make a break for it. Neither happens: He grabs your hands when you try to punch him and then doesn't let go when you try to run. You try kicking him instead and just hurt your damn slipper-wearing toes on his greaves. He says something in Prospitian again and you just roll your eyes.

Okay, new plan: You scream bloody murder and bite him as hard as you can.

"Easy!" He says, in Dersite this time, with your teeth buried in his wrist. To Hell with easy, you dig your teeth in a little harder and the bastard _laughs_. "Easy, don't hurt yourself."

 _"_ Fufck yough." Damn. That usually works, too. He still hasn't let go of the chain between your hands but he's at least not pulling on it, though maybe that's because your teeth are still, you know, fuck deep in his arm. He gives it a little shake that almost dislodges you, and sighs when it fails to do so. The way he looks at you reminds you of looking at Frigglish and Jaspers, and somehow that's even more frustrating than if he'd just said something to outright insult you.

You're not panicking. You're not crying. It's just your jaw is starting to hurt a little, and you're still thinking about getting to Rose and the Striders. You don't know how much time they have, or how much time _you_ have for that matter.

"You're the royal alchemist, right?" 

You blink in confusion. "Who'sh ashkin'?"

"A potential employer if you play the right cards." His eyes twinkle with something you can't figure out. You think he might be making fun of you, or maybe he knows something you don't. You don't really like the sound of either of those options and just glare at him. He shakes his head. "Just hear me out; maybe everyone's been a little distracted with the King of Derse's surrender, but we have some interest in the remaining nobility, too."

You don't want his goddamn money, you want your family and your freedom. You dig your teeth in harder and feel a vicious little thrill when he visibly winces. 

"Don'ph bargain wid me, athhole." You grumble. You give your head a little shake like a dog with a bone, and you really hope he bruises where your teeth are. You're biting the arm that isn't holding onto your shackles, so if he wants out of this, he's gonna have to let you go; that's what you're counting on, anyway, and you're pretty sure you can outrun him in the hedge maze.

You stare him down for like a minute and somehow he just. _Doesn't_. What do they make these motherfuckers _out of_ in Prospit?

This is ridiculous. You wish you knew how to do that troll thing where they snarl with their mouths full. Your eyes are hot and your face hurts from biting him for so long with no progress, and you rattle your chains to try and get out of his grip but he still doesn't let go. You mumble profanity under your breath and he laughs again, a light chuckle that makes you want to slap him across the face.

You don't want to give up, but. Maybe you can hear him out. If nothing else, hearing him out means you can present your own ideas, even if it's a long shot to actually getting them done. Do you really want to trust him?

... Do you have a choice?

You narrow your eyes and unclench your teeth, straightening up as regally as you can manage. "What's your offer?"

"I thought you didn't want to bargain with me?"

" _Boy_ , ya do _not_ wanna be cute with me right now, I am having all _Hells_ of a really bad time on this otherwise beautiful, sexy night and I just might take off one of these fancy slippers and beat yo' ass with it if you test me."

He just smiles back at you, dimples on either side of his mouth. You get the feeling people getting genuinely barking mad at this guy is a novelty to him.

You frown at him anyway and resist the urge to stick your tongue out at him behind his back as he guides you to a nearby bench. How is Rose right now? Probably also planning an escape. The longer you spend with this dicklord, the narrower the window of opportunity gets, and the thought is making you so antsy that you can't even bear to sit down.

"Let's start with the basics." He looks up at you, serious now. "Since King Strider formally surrendered a couple days ago, we've been trying to figure out what to do with you. All of you, the Dersite nobility that is. All said and done, even if some of the generals and advisers are a little more bloodthirsty, we'd like to come out of this without having to kill any of you; we're just having a hard time justifying the cost of keeping you alive and the potential... _tension_ that could cause."

"... Uh huh." Nothing new to you so far. It makes you nervous to hear him talk about the matter so _bluntly_ , but that's a motivator for you. The silence that draws itself out between the two of you feels like he's making a point, and you itch to get the shackles off as soon as possible.

"So listen." He says at last, and you take a break from the (excruciating) exercise of trying to dislocate your thumb in another bid to escape. He loops the chain of your shackles around his fingers, making it just about impossible for you. "My... brother, I guess you could say, proposed some of the highest ranking of his retinue get a claim to the remaining Dersite nobility. There's only four of you left, right? You, your sister, and the royal family. Or, royal brothers I guess? That's a problem..." 

He shakes his head. You eye every twitch of his face warily, like the amiable negotiations are going to flake right off and reveal a monster. 

His smile could rival the sun, and is a lot more charming and poisonous besides. "The Emperor already made his choice, and he didn't exactly pick the best option for a budding conqueror; even I can see that. I get second dibs, and I figured hey, a royal alchemist is _probably_ the most practical choice out of the four, right? I don't want someone hanging around just as arm candy. But here's where you'll probably be interested."

Is he wasting your time on purpose? He looks, for real, like none of this matters to him; it's like anything you say, he's going to find a way to get around it and do what he wants. 

But you smile back, voice pitched ever so slightly higher and gigglier. "And what's that, big guy? Need someone to marry you so Prospit looks good for the masses?"

"Nah, nothing like that." He looks very serious all of a sudden, and produces a piece of bent wire from somewhere in his billowy, gold-and-blue sleeves. With a flick of his wrist and a couple clicks of the internal mechanisms, your shackles fall apart. Where did a prince learn to pick locks?

You're so stunned you don't run, and then his hands are clasped around yours, warm and soft even through the leather of his gloves.

"Here's my offer: Work for me as _my_ royal alchemist, is what I'm saying." His eyes glint with something almost vicious. "I don't want to be the Emperor and I don't want my brother fucked over by his own decisions, you know? We need as much of an edge as we can get while he's on this campaign, and if there are any talents you and yours can contribute to that, we should make full use of them, right?"

Your mouth hangs open. The audacity, after taking over your kingdom and filling the streets of the capital with soldiers? And he wants you to _help_ with that?

"What the fuck?"

"Heh, okay, I probably didn't pitch that so well, but think about it! I'll let go of your hands so you can think about it properly, even." 

He does, and you almost run, but...

"Consider: If you work for me, that's more freedom for sure than if one of the others gets their pick."

You stop and stare. He sits down on a stone bench, props his ankle up on his knee, and rests his chin on one hand in a clear display of how much he knows he's got your attention.

"I'm offering you a job, a much better station than some minor lord's housekeeper, and a chance to keep contact with your family instead of being scattered to the four winds, no hope of ever speaking to them face to face again. That'd just be heartless." He turns serious, watching you like a hawk. "You already know we can't let you _really_ free, but if you're working for me... well, besides having the resources of an Empire at your fingertips, what would the difference be to what you had before?"

You don't know what to say to that.

"Your King already gave up his crown. We already promised the people of this land would flourish. Think about yourself for a little; I get the feeling it's been a long time since you did something like that!"

You really hate having to make this kind of choice. You grumble to yourself, crossing your arms, and turn away from him.

You need to find Rose. You need someone to talk to. You can't agree to something like this without asking someone you actually really know, no matter how he spins it.

He doesn't follow you as you run into the hedge maze, but you keep running until your chest aches so hard that your ears start ringing. Sometime in there you stop, breathing hard, sweat pouring off your skin and your clothes clinging to your back. There's no breeze in here to relieve you.

You look up at the night sky with the moon glowing overhead, purplish in the misty clouds of Derse. If you follow him, if you do what he says, what would he have you do? Would you be a poisoner anyway? Would he give you freedom like he says he would?

There are no stars out tonight, you don't have your charts, and you don't have Rose. You wish you were in the observatory with her instead of here in the gardens, kneeling in the dirt like you'll find answers in the mud if you pray to it hard enough.

You get up and dust yourself off. The prince you spoke to's probably telling some guards about where you've run off to, so you need to hurry up and get out of this maze before they close in, so exhausted and bleary-eyed, you square your shoulders and try to orient yourself in the maze.

One hand to the wall, Rose always told you when you were kids. You start walking, listening for guards, and hope (vainly) that you'll see her at one of the exits.


	4. Rose Lalonde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back on track I think! I was expecting to be more out of it today, too, so this is good.
> 
> Also Rose is absolutely the horniest of the Strilondes, at least internally. But Kanaya is also heavily implied to be going commando so, there's that.
> 
> New Tags:  
> Necromancy (NOTE: speaking-to-the-dead necromancy, not zombies and skeletons necromancy.)

You're not at the end of the hedge maze, nor are you in the center or some other corner of the gardens. You watch, dispassionate and despondent in equal measure, as your sister makes a vain attempt to dodge Prospitian soldiers in her search for your holding cell.

You suppose that in some ways, you're lucky. You get to see your sister again, even if you can neither speak to her nor make yourself known in any meaningful way, and you're being held in a proper room with a window and shutters, if atop one of the many towers of the palace. The room itself is stripped bare of anything that could even conceivably be used to escape, and quite a number of things that cannot.

You turn away from Roxy just as she runs into three soldiers positioned by the Prospitian second prince specifically to catch her, and you take stock of the room you're in once more. There's a cot against the wall and a single candle in the center of the circular, stone floor. The cot was moved here for you- the Prospitians made sure to keep in mind that you were prisoners, of course, so it's not the best, but they've made an effort to ensure you're in relatively good health while you're incarcerated- and the candle is a stub you'd hidden away in your skirts for such an occasion.

You only had glimpses of such a thing, of course. Shadows on the walls, your little flame flickering in the breath of long-dead lungs. Words that convey image rather than sound, seen only in the corners of your eyes and the darkness in every half-second you blink.

They'd told you to be prepared. They'd left out what you were to be prepared _for_ , but that's par for the course with communicating with the deceased.

Or you assume so, but that doesn't matter right now. You're about to do some more of it.

Your skirts whisper across the floor as you turn and kneel with your back to the faintly lavender moonlight streaming in from the window, counting your inhales and exhales until you feel your whole body begin to relax, your thoughts begin to go pliable and warm. Hands raised on either side of the candle stub, as if warming them over the flame or about to conduct a symphony, you then turn your palms inward and loosely cup the wick in a cage of your fingers.

It's all silence until you hear a ringing in your ears, and then in your head. You don't see it, but you feel it, and that's more than enough for the image to form in your mind's eye: A flame alights on the wick, ghostly and blue, calling the dead to you. Shadows flicker on the walls in the corners of your vision, but you stare directly into the space between your fingers instead. You gather yourself and your thoughts, pushing through the dense, muffling fog forming in your own skull.

_How do I escape?_

Lightless shades curl across the dark walls. Long ago, you would have been afraid, but now it's a comforting thing to be surrounded by these memories. You lean into the question as hard as you can, echoing and magnifying it in your mind until the imaginary flame burns hot enough to scorch your very soul.

Images- a face, a pair of tall, elegantly-swept horns, though the image bleeds into the edges of your vision and you can't see that face all that clearly. A troll? You try to focus, your veins throbbing and tight under your skin. Footsteps? That's new; you've never heard sound before, not really, when you communed with that beyond the veil. The images grow more frantic, more disjointed- candelabra, a shimmering geometric pattern, flashes of black and white.

The door to your cell opens and floods the room with light, so bright it hits you like a physical blow.

It's not actually that bright. The visions bubble and fade and crumble away, chased off like dreams, or parchment paper held over a flame. You would scream if it were any other situation. Mostly you're just curious as to why _the fuck_ someone has decided to pay you a visit, and upon whom your ire will be most effectively brought down.

You snatch up your little candle stub and squirrel it away up your sleeve, tucking said sleeve into your shackles to keep it secure. Only then do you turn, slowly, towards the door, eager to at least give your unwelcome guest a stern talking to, if nothing else.

Or, you were planning to. You look her up and down instead, the lit candelabra in one hand and a basket of sweet-smelling, slightly overripe-looking fruit in the other. Your eyes trail up to her horns, swept inwards, one hooked like the end of a harpoon and fashionably wound with a gold chain. The end bears a crystalline drop of jade.

She smiles at you and does a little curtsy. Just beyond the door, a Prospitian guard narrows his eyes at her, but says nothing. She's someone of importance, then; unusual for a troll in Derse, but perhaps not too unusual in an empire like Prospit's.

"May I come in?" She says. It takes you a second to understand, though she gestures towards the cot. You're immediately suspicious as to what she's here for, but.

Your vision. Elegantly swept horns, candelabra, a pale, glowing face. The candles should by no means be _that_ bright, you think, until you realize they really aren't. She's quite literally glowing, casting light through the diaphanous gold of her gown.

"Ah. Hmm." Your eyes trail a little lower. The light is mostly uninterrupted, though the cut and drape of her layered, flowing skirts means you get some tantalizing strips of dimness and brightness here and there, suggestions of where the clothing is closest to her skin. You stand and dust yourself off a little, smiling at her, a little quirk of the lips meant to convey a certain confidence, a certain demure disinterest. "Of course. Do come in; make yourself as at home in my little prison as you wish."

She doesn't seem to notice your jab, or perhaps she's got the grace not to care. Either way, she does another curtsy and steps over the threshold, the door closed behind her by the guard. As she moves towards your bed- and you can't stop yourself from thinking, that's a beautiful woman sitting in _your_ bed- you're immediately distracted by the clean line of light that goes along her thigh, over her hip, to her waist. She crosses her legs at the knee, adjusting the hems over her dainty ankles.

That's interesting. 

And somehow your ancestors decided she's the key to getting out of here. You can't say you disagree with their taste.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" You ask, as you sit beside her.

"Hm. A companionship? Trying for alliance." She sets the candelabra on the floor, though really there's not much need for it with her glowing skin. For a moment she murmurs to herself like she's getting used to the words, before she smiles at you. "I want to know you."

She hands you a peach, soft and slightly cool, and you make a point to glide the tips of your fingers over the inside of her wrist as you accept it, eyes on hers the whole time.

"An unusual proposition, I should say, from someone in the Emperor's retinue." You roll the peach in your fingers as she watches your hands. "But not an unwelcome one. What's in it for me?"

She blinks. "Sorry?"

You like to think she looks taken aback. It's a good look for her; y ou take easier notice of the long points of her fangs pressed to her darkly-painted lower lip, the graceful curve of her hooked nose, her wide, luminescent eyes. You chuckle. 

"Surely you didn't expect a prisoner to accept an offer of friendship for nothing? Or is it more like I don't have a choice? I would like to hear what you have to say about all this, not to mention that I have _some_ idea of what fate is to befall me." Your eyes never leave hers as you take a bite of the peach; you were right about it being just a little overripe, practically bursting between your teeth. Juices run across your tongue, spill down your chin. Fuck. Well that was the least sexy thing you could have chosen to do.

You frown and move to wipe your mouth, but she produces a perfumed handkerchief from her _cleavage_ and hands it to you. You stare before accepting it as well, blushing madly as you wipe your mouth and chin. It's really a shame that she's come upon you in such a state; not just covered in fruit, of course, but also that she has to see you blush, and you haven't had the chance to reapply your makeup.

At least you've bathed. It could be much worse, for a lot of reasons.

"Thank you for the fruit and the handkerchief, but you still haven't answered my question." You wonder if it was a ploy to get you to stop staring at her; if so, it worked, and you're not happy about it working but you're not brave enough to look her in the face after that. You at least have the dignity not to pout like a child. "I'm sure you can understand my wariness in the face of my current predicament."

"... Of course." Some part of you still feels like she's mocking you as she picks out a different fruit for herself; a fig, it looks like, carefully peeled of its skin and wrapped in a bit of clean cheesecloth, which she uses to hold it and catch the juice as she takes a bite. "I should tell you my Dersite is not the best."

"Please." She has a voice smooth as butter and you couldn't care less about her grammar. "I'm sure I'll understand just fine."

You watch her hands from the corner of your eye. Her long fingers are still in her lap, one hand still holding the fig with the bite out of it. You wrap the peach in her handkerchief and clear your throat noisily.

"Please. How to say this?" Oh. Well, now you feel rude. But you suppose rushing her a little is barely a pittance paid to the pain the Prospitians have wrought on Derse. "I want... no, the Emperor, he decrees we are caring for you, yes? I chose you. I wish you are my friend before we leave Derse." She takes another bite of the fig. "Sorry. My Dersite is not the best."

You drop the peach.

It rolls across the floor before you can catch it, but you're not paying it much mind right now. She tuts and gently pulls her handkerchief from between your slack fingers, tucking it back into her basket. "Leave..."

"We leave soon. Back to the capital. We have many days and nights between here and there. I want you are my friend before we go, to make life for us easy in Prospit."

Your head spins with the implications, with your desires caught up in your fears. You're going to Prospit with her? Your home, your family... You burn with the questions unasked, when this was decided, when you'll have to go, who will remain. But you can't ask her that. You smile at her instead, and think, you still want to tear her clothes off but now there's bitterness in it. 

She wants to be your friend? She wants life to be easy in Prospit? Fuck that. You'll make her love you and hate it. You'll drive her crazy with the thought of you.

"May I ask my new companion her name?" You cross your legs at the knee, adjusting the shoulders of your dress. You see her eyes drawn to the line of your neck for a split second before they come up to your face again. Good.

A title, and then her name. "Kanaya Maryam. Please, I am Kanaya." She pauses, thinks about it, and reaches into the basket for another piece of fruit. An orange this time, bright and shiny even in here. The pocked skin glows where it meets her fingers.

"Kanaya, then. I was a little surprised, but, one could say I'm pleased to meet you now that I've gotten some idea of you." You take the orange and split it with a trick Roxy once showed you, offering half back to Kanaya. "I'm sure this will be a productive friendship."

She smiles back. You wonder what she'll look like once you actually start being difficult. Will she strike you or abuse you? Will she give you away? Or will you have the opportunity to resume some control over this mess of your life after all? The possibilities are as varied as they are unpleasant, but if you can just hold on to the one you want, fight your way towards freedom...

"Rose? You are looking troubled." Her face comes back into focus. Her brows are knit very slightly together in concern, and were it not for your current mood, you would have taken that as an invitation to ease it away with a kiss.

You pop a segment of the orange into your mouth, smiling serenely at her, and think of how best you can make life difficult for her in the coming weeks. "Just having thoughts. I don't think I've ever thought about visiting the center of Prospit, nevermind living there."

She puts a hand over one of yours in what she probably thinks is a comforting gesture. Her palms are surprisingly cool, but then, you've heard that about certain trolls, haven't you? 

"You will like it." She says. "It is a beautiful place, if far away. But we travel easily between the colonies." She says, before she removes her hand. You think she might have given your knuckles a little squeeze, even. "I will be sure of your home in good order."

You can't say it's had the intended effect. You're going to leave this room, yes, that's what you'd intended, but you find yourself suddenly attached to it; it's part of your _home_ , after all, and you don't want to make the long journey to the Prospitian capital with or without your family.

From outside the window, you can see the palace courtyard, and the opposite tower. The observatory dome makes a distinctive, curved silhouette against the purplish night sky. You'd spent so many nights there, with your mother as she charted the stars and Derse's fortunes within them, and then by yourself or with Roxy as you did the same. 

Had either of you foreseen this at some point? Would you have known where to look, were you looking for it? Or perhaps, in a fit of hubris, you'd thought Prospit would never set its eyes on Derse.

It doesn't matter now. What matters are the coming days. What matters is trying to put up with this woman, whatever she may be like when the novelty of keeping you to herself and being kind to you has worn off.  It's foolish to consider escape when you've never been outside of Derse yourself, so you'll have to find other ways.

"I'm sure it's lovely." You say. "Perhaps you would be amenable to showing me around? It wouldn't do for me to be ignorant while I'm there."

It's a bold move, but you're nothing if not bold. When she opens her mouth to speak again, you pop a slice of orange past her lips, watching her eyes widen and her pretty face flush jade.


	5. Jake English

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of weird name shit in this chapter that's "translated" for readers. I didn't want to get into fake languages but I guess that's a thing that's happening now anyway.
> 
> New Tags:  
> Partial Mind Control  
> Magical Charisma  
> Prophetic Dreams 
> 
> (Last one is actually referring to an earlier chapter with Dave, though they're not actually completely prophetic, just ominous. There is a difference!)
> 
> Name Translations:  
> Iyakev Anglisi - Jake English  
> Iyanon Eckvert - John Egbert  
> Iyanan Katkur - Jane Crocker  
> Iyadya Arlahi - Jade Harley
> 
> Last names are more like titles or epithets, "Iya" is the family name, second syllable is the given name.

Should you be expecting letters any time soon? Derse is awfully far from the Prospitian capital, the bright city of Locah, and what you've seen of the place hasn't exactly been up to certain standards of advancement, either, though with your advisers and architects and whatnot already planning their fancy hats off, it shouldn't even take the span of a couple choice rattles from the nearest stable before everything's up to snuff with back home.

Hah. Haha. Home, right. You've got mixed feelings about the trip back, now that things are settling back here. On the one hand, you want to see Iyanan again anyway. You've finally proven yourself as a capable sort, haven't you? You couldn't have done this without your brother, your advisers, and the few people you can still call friends. But you still did it, and you want to rub it in her disbelieving, condescending face. It was her idea! But you know she didn't _really_ think you could do this. 

Besides, you've had your fill of adventuring during this campaign and found it a bit more distasteful than you'd imagined when all the planning for it had been finished up and _then_ gift wrapped for you back in the capital, and you'll be sure to give her a choice handful of words for this entire debacle and then some. 

The crown you wear is a lot heavier on your head now that you know exactly what's gone into putting it there.

But on the other hand, there's so much to do here in Derse in the meantime, and... You got here, you claimed the place, it's yours and you should rule it, shouldn't you? That's what you should want to do, shouldn't you? You ought to be kicking up a stink about being sent home, even if you're not the most useful outside of motivating people with a wink and a smile and a rousing speech and a little of that old preternatural charm, but you know you can be more. You have to be more.

You're not sure if you want to be more. There's a lot you're not sure about. It's not very befitting of an emperor.

Your name is Iyakev Anglisi. You've taken to calling yourself Jake English as the locals have, at least for a little while, even though you know you won't get the chance to use it for long; it's an entertaining affectation for the moment, and it's fun to say besides, and it makes it easier to speak to the Dersites who've turned to your side anyway, since they have such a problem pronouncing your actual name. 

It's been weeks since you've confirmed the surrender of Derse to Prospitian rule and there's still so much to do that it kind of makes your head turn around and in on itself sometimes. You're not actually handling most of it, but you have to be there while other people handle it so you can pretend to give your opinion on everyone's suggestions. You don't _really_ _care_ is the thing; you just want it to be _done_.

So when you decide to retire to your chosen quarters at long last and Dirk Strider tries to brain you with a broken chair leg, it's a real doozy of a distraction, so much so that you forget you're supposed to be the charming one.

You just about shriek like a cat in a downhill barrel, grabbing it out of his hands a little before it can reach your face. Your gauntlets bite into the wood with a crunch- ah, right, you're still wearing those- and he lets go to just about dance away from you.

The chair leg crunches into little slivers of wood in your first- ah, you should probably be careful with your grip strength while these things are on, you can almost feel the little splinters bouncing off the enchanted metal. He just stares in shock, which, you _suppose_ isn't too unusual a reaction to someone seeing these things in action for the first time. You were surprised too!

That and he got so close to joining that chair leg in a pile of garden mulch, which is probably a harrowing prospect even with modern medicine. It's become a bit of a ritual the past few days, making sure he doesn't actually hurt you and you don't actually hurt him, but you're tired and you can't pull punches when you're tired. You'd given him your word that he'd be cared for, but he's making it difficult for everyone!

What does he expect is going to happen if he successfully hurts you? If you actually hurt him? You really don't want to hurt him.

You take a deep breath and peel off your gauntlets, raising your hands to show they're safe now, and fasten as charming a smile as you can to your slack face. You just want some rest.

"You frightened me that time, you rascal; how did you get in here this time?" It's like talking to a scared horse, you think; a very scared, very pointy, and very dangerous horse (or more dangerous than horses usually are, which frankly is already a lot as a baseline), and it doesn't help that even _now_ your grasp of Dersite has nowhere near the charm and panache you'd like. You don't approach him when he's like this, it'll likely only get him even more riled up.

Though, considering the treatment he's been getting the past few days, you wouldn't be surprised if _everything_ you did riled him up.

"Are you toying with me?" He asks. He's brandishing a vase this time, and you want to frown but that's really on him if he tries to bludgeon you with that; it's not particularly well-shaped for improvised weaponry, and it would be a waste of a nice vase all the same. You lower your voice a little, throw in a bit of _pull_ to it as you meet his eyes.

"I wouldn't be so confrontational about this, really, it's unbecoming!" You say. You're doing it to him _now_ , but you're not happy about it in the least, and that has to count for _something_. "Calm down, Strider, and then we'll talk; but before anything else, what the devil did you think this was going to accomplish? Especially if you'd _really_ hit me."

"Don't ask me that and don't talk to me like that. It's insulting to both of us and the situation we're all in, you disingenuous, slimy son of a..." Well, gentle coaxing obviously didn't work, he's too worked up for it; but he stops and takes a deep breath anyway, putting down the vase before he straightens up, and you're pretty sure you can see him counting backwards from ten as he closes his eyes and grinds a knuckle into his temple. You take the opportunity to wrap your bare fingers around his wrist and pull the vase from his now-limp fingers.

"What..." He looks at your hands uncomprehendingly, looks up to your face. He's a sharp one, you'll give him that, except he looks right into your eyes again. "How dare you-"

You lean into the words with more force this time. "I'm doing us both a favor, really! Not that you particularly deserve favors after attempting to murder me so messily, but I'm a soft-hearted fool and I think we can both agree on that." You smile and pat him on the cheek. "I do terribly need you to behave for the next few days, though; can you do that for me?"

He's fighting you so hard, too, but he's never had to deal with this sort of persuasion it looks like. You bring one of his hands to your mouth, press a soft kiss to his knuckles, and watch him come undone as he looks right at you one more time.

"Be good for me, dear, and you'll find yourself quite rewarded." Your grip on his fingers turns tight, punishing, though it makes you ache to do so. "I promised your people would flourish, but I didn't say you would come out unscathed if you fought me."

You hate the fear in his eyes. You hate looking into someone's eyes and seeing their pain and terror laid bare like this, but you hate it in his particularly, so bright and full of defiance that's going to lead to nothing but all kinds of utter bull-scutter that you'll have to have someone clean up.

"Now hurry downstairs. It's late, and we have a big day tomorrow; the weather isn't going to wait for us to be ready for the trip back to Locah, and it's a _long_ way from here."

He does as he's told in a daze, though he keeps looking over his shoulder at you, and you think you may have overdone it a little.

~!~

You and your closest will be heading back to Locah, leaving most of the army and its supply lines in place. You'll have guards of course, and General Vantas will be joining you, hailed a hero despite his low birth. (Are trolls born? Low hatching? You're not sure.)

From there, more people will be flooding to Derse for a change of pace, for promises of new audiences, new markets, all sorts of things. From there, you'll have governors and messengers set up, and then it's all out of your hands. It won't _look_ like it is, but it will be, and thank Skaia for that.

For safety reasons, the Dersite royal family will be transported in separate carriages, watched closely by several guards each. You've all heard of what magic they have, whether exaggerated or otherwise, and even though half of them have _passive_ abilities, it's best to be on your toes.

Particularly since your brother told you that one of them escaped for a little while, with some mushrooms and a little wine. She and her sister were thoroughly checked for anything else they might have squirreled away in case of any more escape attempts, and then the two brothers just for good measure.

You watch the countryside pass you by as the carriage trundles along through the muddy, well-churned road. Maybe you ought to have ridden out on a horse, but it's raining right now, and the interior is warm. You could fall asleep like this.

"Something on your mind?"

You don't fall asleep because now your brother has his feet draped across your thighs. He's always like this, and those greaves make him _heavy_. You cough, then laugh, then shove his legs back onto the floor.

"Nothing in particular. I just think I'm going to miss this place, you know, we've hardly had the time to get to know the local flavor!" Once more, you look through the slats of the window blinds, fine mist spraying across your glasses from the rain and fogging them up. You should lower the curtain or the whole inside of this carriage is going to get damp. "It feels like we've got unfinished business here, or maybe it's just that I didn't get much of a chance to do any proper carousing on this trip."

"Mmh." He shrugs, toes digging under a cushion now. "You'll be doing plenty of that back home. You'll get sick of it, don't you think?"

"You know what I mean!" You sigh and try to run a hand through your hair, but instead your fingers catch on the edge of your crown. It's a simpler one than the one you'd wear back home, a band of gold inlaid with metal-treated glass and precious stones in square panels, not the beaded headdress with all its drapes and frippery you'll be wearing on the throne.

It's still rather fancy. Heavy, too. Everything feels heavy lately, from your armor and cape to your polished gauntlets. You wonder if that might mean something.

You change the subject.

"I think I'll miss being Jake English most of all." You say.

Iyanon laughs. "You'll miss being what? What kind of a name is that?"

"One I've been given here. It really gives you the sense of being part of the local-"

"-Flavor, again, huh." He goes quiet. "Maybe it'll be fashionable to have names like that soon. Or not, fashion is kind of stupid."

You smile. "You've been talking to General Vantas again."

"Hey, Karkat's alright when you get past how mad at everything he is." He rolls over in the cushions, propping himself up in one. The wheels make the lanterns sway hanging from the corners outside sway, casting shadows across his face through the blinds. Besides, _he_ isn't going by some weird local name."

"He doesn't think _anything_ fun is worth doing." Well, no, that's not true. But you don't agree with is definition of fun. You pause. "Is reading actually fun for him or is he just pretending?"

"How did you become Emperor again?" Iyanon laughs, tossing one of the smaller cushions at you. "But alright. Alright. I'll humor you, so it can be a trend with us, if you want it to be, so you don't need to decree it and become a despot. Next town we stop in, I'll ask a Dersite to try and pronounce my name, and get stuck with something like John Egbert I guess."

"You're remarkably good at mimicking a Dersite accent. Where did you learn that?"

"Never you mind."

And you lapse into silence again, but you think about that for a little. It might make Dirk feel better about being taken from his home, to have a little something of it still with him, even something as simple as a handful of names. You think that, if your roles were reversed, you would want much the same thing.

"John Egbert." You shake your head. "John Egbeert. Jahn Egbert. Am I saying it right?"

"Who knows and who cares?" John- you like the sound of it, really, you like the sound of that one- turns over and puts his feet back up on your lap. This time you let him. 

But apparently your acceptance of his invasion of personal space is suspicious. 

"... Something else is bothering you, right?"

"Hmm. Maybe." You turn to him, though you make sure to focus on the sapphire at his throat. "Or do you just want to talk about something on _your_ mind? You can tell me if something is bothering you, I'll listen, I don't think you'd like to hear about _my_ problems, right?"

"You make me sound so cold." He chews his lip, glancing up, thinking about it. "But no, you're right. You can talk to someone else about it."

You hum in answer to that, and then the two of you lapse into silence, which, honestly, is probably for the best. The rain rattles the roof of the carriage, and you really, really hope you don't have to stop any time soon, because your eyes are getting heavy despite your best efforts otherwise.


	6. John Egbert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some implications I'm really proud of here, especially the bits that came from the original concept, and I'm halfway through my estimated wordcount but it looks like I really need to go higher than I thought.
> 
> Still having fun though, that's what's important. Also John and Karkat friendship tag has been added.
> 
> New tags:  
> Dubious Ethics
> 
> None right now, but feel free to ask me to tag so I can mention them in the next chapter or point out errors to me so I can fix them!
> 
> EDIT Feb. 23, 2020:  
> Changed one of Karkat's lines.  
> Original: "I don't think you're a bad person, but that doesn't mean you didn't make a fucked up choice."  
> Edited: "I'm inclined to think better of you. Still a shitty choice, though."
> 
> EDIT Feb 28, 2020:  
> Added some new lines to the scene where Roxy figures out that there were spies in Derse. Now with extra traitors!

The next town is three days' ride and barely a town at all. It's more of an outpost now, and coming here is partially because the caravan needs to resupply up to the next point in your journey, and partially because General Vantas is a lot more hands-on, in your opinion, than really necessary. You can understand his need to check if his underlings have been running the place properly while the people with actual governing experience are still making their way over, but you can't help but think it's a little funny.

Mostly. You're not feeling optimistic about the state of things, because optimism is for children and your magically-inclined brother.

But it hasn't been three days yet. It's stopped raining, but it's nightfall, so you have to stop travelling for a bit so horses and elephants- well, two elephants, no sense bringing all of them back at the same time- can be fed and watered, people can have some dinner, supplies can be counted and listed, that sort of thing.

Normally you would wake Iyakev as you stop to rest for the night, but he's already asleep and this gives you the perfect opportunity to stretch your legs and your thoughts without having to talk things through with him. It's especially crucial, you think, as he still doesn't know you've made your plans to have Roxy Lalonde actually do more than look pretty for you.

The guards around her carriage part for you with murmurs and bows that you wave off. They warn you that she's dangerous, but really, how dangerous could she be right now? When they'd caught her without her cuffs, they changed tactics and chained her with her hands behind her back and her ankles to her wrists.

Barbaric, but effective. You open the door and step into the dark, musty, suffocating little thing, more a crate on wheels than an actual carriage. 

"Ugh." You wrinkle your nose as you close the little door behind you, because it's been two days and while they made sure to let her out to empty her guts, stretch out her legs, and eat, she's in here while you travel, and it still reeks of stale sweat, morning breath, and old hay. You should have them replace that with something finer; it makes a poor impression.

"Ugh yourself." She grouses from the dark. "This is _your_ fucking fault, you know. Did you know this was gonna happen? I feel like you knew this was gonna happen."

"Clever girl." You pull a bottle half filled with lightweed and seawater from your sleeve, giving it a good shake until it glows. The greenish light is so dim now, and you don't know when you'll be close enough to the sea to get more, but it at least gives off enough to see her by. She glares up at you from where she's lying on her side, eyes still vividly pink even in the weird, faint glow.

You smile, just a little twitch of your mouth, but smooth it down as soon as it comes up. "I'm guessing this is a bad time to ask if you're up for working for me yet."

"No shit?" She cackles like a witch. Which, well, you guess she kind of is? Alchemists, man. She sighs and turns over again, wincing as she rolls over her shackled hands, and then her back is to you. "If this is your idea of being convincing, I bet you've never gone past the second date in your life."

"Ouch." You sit down beside her, hands in your lap where you hold onto the light bottle. The night is quiet outside, but it's even quieter in here where you can pretty much only hear the two of you breathing. "I came to talk a few things through, you're right. But I wasn't expecting them to be so..." You gesture at the interior and she snorts again.

You don't want to imagine what being locked in here for the whole trip might do to someone, that's just too morbid for you, and you've been dealing with a lot on this trip. 

"For what it's worth coming from the man who basically put you in this situation, I _did_ want to offer you a way out." You say. She groans at you as you expect her to, but she doesn't have a sharp retort for you like you were almost hoping for. In fact she's completely quiet, and when you lean over to take a closer look, her eyes gleam wet and green against the lightweed's glow.

She's crying.

Shit, now you feel like the bad guy. You don't want to be the bad guy.

(You're running an empire. Do you have a choice?)

You sit back on your heels, partially to give her a measure of privacy with the crying and partially because, well, wow, you actually have no idea how to handle people crying. You scratch the side of your neck and try not to listen too closely when you actually notice her breathing coming in hitched little sobs.

"You know how the Prospitian royalty were all born with some kind of blessing?" She probably doesn't, but you think it might give her something to hold onto, giving her some shred of sincerity from you. "I know it's the same for you. Being blessed that is. Thing is I'm actually not Iyakev's- uh, Jake's, the Emperor's- brother through blood."

You rock back on your ass a little, hands flat on the floor except for a handful of hay. Ew. 

The lightweed flickers a little and you shake it some more as you speak. "I don't have any magic of my own to be honest; I'm just good at faking it. You have your _thing_ with alchemy- I don't know how it works, but I know you do- and that's why I'm evening things out between us."

You pause and wait for her to catch up. It doesn't take long.

"You saying you need me?" She asks.

"Exactly. And the thing is-"

"How did you know about our magic?" She snaps, suddenly enough that you stumble over your words. Hm, you're not used to doing that, you don't like it. She presses on. "It's one of the best kept secrets of Derse. How did you know we could do that?"

You stare at her, and then you feel it, an ache bubbling in your lungs that you can't hold back as it tugs up the corners of your mouth.

You laugh.

A lot, actually. It's probably not leaving a good impression on her, either, but you're pretty far past first impressions at this point, aren't you?

"Sorry, sorry- I just-" You have to breathe between words and laughter. Roxy rattles her chains irritably and curses in a really impressive stream of obscure Dersite profanity that might even make Karkat blush. "I'm sorry. But, uh. If that's your best kept secret, I regret to inform you that Derse kind of sucks at keeping secrets."

" _Ugh_." She says, revulsion evident even in such a small sound. "Spies." And then she pauses. "But... they wouldn't be enough, would they?"

"We had a few Dersite volunteers." _You_ pause, turning the lightweed in your hand again, keeping the glow bright. " _Former_ volunteers. Gruesome display, torched skulls, and I do hate the smell of burning hair."

You see the exact moment the implication hits her, like a slap to the face. Her voice sounds coldly, quietly _pissed off_ when she speaks up again, too. "That's how you knew-"

"-How and when to get a whole army through the wilderness without stopping." You shrug. "It wasn't easy, either! We slipped a few times, especially with how your sister sees through the dead, and the maps we were given didn't avoid _all_ the towns. But it was willed by Skaia, so that's how it had to be."

You can see her reeling from this. You suddenly wish Iyakev _was_ awake, because he's better at being soothing than you, even if he's cheating. You sigh, tossing the light bottle between your fingers now.

"The Prospitian Empire's takeover of Derse was inevitable." You say. "It's a small country and we took every step necessary to make sure we got going while Derse was unprepared and in its least defensible season. I mean I guess everyone who fought us along the way did their best, but you can't really fight against divine will. It was decided even before Iyakev was crowned, including how we would run Derse afterwards. We're not about to just burn the place down like idiots."

She's quiet after that, and then you hear her breath catch, like she's been holding it. You feel the faintest clench of pity, deep in the remains of your heart.

"Oh, princess." You murmur in Prospitian. "Ruxana of the sunless kingdom. Star torn from heaven. Your trust was your undoing, wasn't it?"

She doesn't have to know what you're saying. Better she thinks you're mocking her. You crush that flicker of pity once more.

"Fuck you." She sobs, breath hitching again, hissing her words through her teeth. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you and every traitor and spy you sent our way, fuck all of you. I'd wring your scrawny neck myself if I could get my hands out of these stupid things."

When she's gone from cussing you out to being quiet again, you sigh and stand up, brushing bits of hay off your ass. You watch her as she centers her breathing for a bit, her shoulders shaking. Her whole body is curled up as much as it can with the way she's tied up, and you wonder if it would be a good idea to untie her already. Probably not, but you consider it for a second anyway, the weight of your lockpick weird and awkward against your wrist.

She takes a deep breath and looks at you again, her brows furrowed, her lips trembling, but ready to speak.

"I'm not cracking just yet." She says. "And you're a motherfucker for telling me all this. But..."

You want to push her to go on but it didn't work out. You lean forward slightly and when she catches you doing it she clenches her jaw like she's setting herself against a wall head-first. She still looks hesitant somehow, before she speaks.

"I'm doing this for my family, okay?"

"Of course."

"And I'll tell them what you've said if I see them again."

"Of course."

She pauses. Breathes in.

"Ask me again when we reach the border. I need more time to think."

"... Of course." You say, and that's probably all you're getting out of this encounter. "I'll have them give you a pillow or something. Just consider your options until I come back, then." 

You open the door to leave, but pause, and roll the light bottle towards her. When it bumps her knuckles, you don't wait to see if she does anything with it. You step out of her carriage and into the open air, breathing deeply of the warm, slightly moist night.

You rub your temple, take off your glasses, and then rub your hand over your whole face.

"Prince Eckvert."

General Karkat Vantas bows to you, his mask just about glowing with reflected moonlight. He's not wearing full armor right now, just the gorget, greaves, and bracers. The remnants of his shackles rattle slightly as he moves and you frown.

"You disapprove of this." You say.

He straightens up and removes his mask, uncovering his furrowed eyebrows and the deep frown creasing his mouth. "With all due respect, my prince, it doesn't matter if I disapprove or not, but I can't abide toying with her like that."

"And with all due respect, Karkat, you shouldn't be spying on people's private conversations, either." You tease, but it doesn't lift the frown from his face even a little; or at least it doesn't make him roll his eyes, because you're sure it'd take a miracle to make him stop frowning. You run a hand through your hair, stopping at the curve of your crown where it rests on the back of your head. Like he removes his mask, you remove that, weighing it in your fingers.

"My prince-"

"Call me by my name." 

He pauses, and you frown a little harder, and then glance off into the rest of the camp. The soldiers accompanying your caravan are each gathered around several cook fires, and the conversation is a distant lull to you, where you stand in the cool darkness behind Roxy's _cage_. That Karkat is here instead of making his usual way through the throng...

"Iyanon, then." He says. Karkat never sounds gentle and never _means_ to be gentle, in your experience, but you still flinch a little as he says your name. But you asked him to, didn't you?

No, you commanded him to. That was your mistake. The hand holding his mask is shaking, and you feel like that's probably an appropriate response. 

He narrows his eyes at you, and it's so dark here they look black except for a strip in the corner where they glow red from the firelight, a reflection that's the only light reaching you here.

"First of all, it's not eavesdropping if several other people can hear you just by standing guard, and I understood maybe every third word since I still can't speak Dersite worth shit." He crosses his arms now, looks where you're looking before looking back to you. "Second of all... you didn't have to be cruel to her. Yeah, I know, that's rich coming from me, but _you_ don't need to be cruel to do what needs to be done. What was that all about?"

You smile, tightly. It's not a nice smile, or even a happy one.

"Karkat, do you think I'm a bad guy?" You ask, so quietly you wonder if he heard it. Seconds tick by filled with the sounds of insects and animals out in the dark, and bits of conversation that you can't really make out or care to. More seconds tick by until you hear him sigh.

"I think you made a shitty choice." He says.

"We've both made some pretty shit choices on the way here, man, you know that. That's not what I'm asking, really." You face him now. "Do you think I'm a bad person? With all due respect, not as your prince, but as your friend."

He hesitates, and then shakes his head. It stings a little that he had to think about it, but you're not surprised. 

"I'm inclined to think better of you. Still a shitty choice, though."

He's probably right, or you wouldn't feel so bad about it.

"You can do better than that." He says, and then puts his mask back on and gestures for you to follow him. "Come on, before dinner's over. Someone needs to bring her some food, too, and I don't want some unfortunate subordinate of mine seeing my ugly mug and having a fainting spell. Who knows what the others will do to them."

"... Yeah." You straighten up, smiling. "You're good at keeping people in line, though. I don't think they'd do anything while you were watching."

You follow after him and try not to dwell too hard on the choice you had to make here, or if it even was a choice. You pass by an attendant of yours and tell her to provide Roxy with some actual proper stuff to sleep on, and to have a stern talking to with whoever set her up in there like a caged animal.

It's not hard to ignore it, once you're sitting in the tent with Iyakev and eating. Whatever it leads to, it already happened. There's no use looking back on it now.


	7. Karkat Vantas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late chapter. ;w; But at least I'm still on my wordcount for each day!
> 
> New tags for this chapter:  
> None, as far as I can tell. But feel free to point things out if they need tagging/fixing!
> 
> EDIT JULY 19, 2019: Actually I added a couple new relationship tags, because I always forget to add those in.
> 
> EDIT #2 JULY 19, 2019: Also I really want to answer everyone's lovely comments but I'm really out of spoons just writing this, so please know that I'm not ignoring you, I treasure every single comment left on this fic, I'm just constantly tired. ;w;

"You seem troubled." Kanaya says, in the understatement of a fucking century.

She sits side-saddle on her horse, one hand adjusting her parasol and day lenses, the other with the reins wrapped loosely around her delicate fingers. She doesn't actually need to watch where she's going; the animal is well-trained enough to follow the rest of the caravan and would do so even if she'd had her hands folded in her lap, so she's devoting most of her attention to haranguing you and twirling her parasol.

Instead of an actual answer, you grunt, trying to sound as exhausted and nonchalant as you can manage. Unfortunately, Kanaya is sharper than that and gently eases her horse closer to you with a couple clicks of her tongue until you're both under the papery shade. She smiles at you, mild and just _kind of_ wheedling, but it's got that edge to it where you're pretty sure you need to lie better than "nothing" or she's going to keep on about it.

"Are you ready to tell me about your problems now, or shall I give you your personal space?"

You sigh behind your mask and push it up on your forehead until it bumps the curve of your helmet. "How about the fact that it was raining yesterday and now it's midday and the humidity is fucking killing me?" You say, wiping sweat off your face with the edge of your hood. The stupid thing would have been a relief back home, closer to the desert, but here it traps _too much_ moisture, and your mask is suffocating you despite the otherwise cool, damp climate.

"Not quite in the field of what I was looking for, no. Come on, please?" She twirls her parasol a little, straightening her back and readjusting her skirt. You feel just the slightest twinge of guilt when she starts looking morose, lower lip trembling slightly before she turns to face ahead again, but you tell yourself you're stronger than that. You _have_ to have more willpower than that, you're General Fucking Vantas and if you start getting soft _now..._

Your horse does that annoying flappy-lipped horse noise at you as if calling into question your authority, and you're sorely tempted to answer it back for its insubordination, except then you'd be the crazed _former_ General Vantas because you've stooped so low as to start talking to your horse. You scowl before pulling your mask back over your face and readjust it until you can see through the lenses again, before glancing over at Kanaya who's chatting up someone else now, one of her socialite friends who'd been given the honor of attending the occasion with her. 

Some part of you feels a little betrayed that she's lost interest so easily, but that's fine. You're fine. You were hesitant about talking about it anyway, and you don't _need_ to talk to her about whatever lingering feelings you've been having about the prince and the Emperor and their treatment of the former Dersite royalty. This is par for the course with Prospit; you don't need to be concerned with it.

You've had such an involved hand in so much of it that that'd just be stupid. Soldiers and civilians alike lived and died by your command. You turn your head back towards the long stretch of road ahead, your breath warm against the scarf between your skin and your mask.

~!~

The caravan stops in the middle of the day in the shade of an orchard that you'd passed by when you'd been marching on the way here. It was a distant point then, mostly ignored; there was no point in stopping by a cottage so out of the way even if it had an orchard next to it, but now you're all glad to find it again. The horses and elephants need water. The soldiers and attendants need to rest their weary feet. All of you really fucking need a bath, and there's a stream nearby that will suit that purpose just fine.

Not all at once, of course; contrary to popular belief, soldiers are not in fact animals. But it's still a hot day and the trees give off the kind of shade that makes everyone kind of floppy and lethargic just standing there. You've been slowly steaming in your armor all morning, and now that it's high noon, you _know_ it's so much worse for any of your soldiers who haven't been sitting on top of a sweaty animal, moving only through the power of their own, tired walkstubs. 

With permission from Iyanon and the Emperor, and a stern warning from you not to steal any of the fruit- and you'll be checking the captain's bags at least; if you find a single fucking undeclared apple in there, you _will_ have them whipped in front of the entire platoon, and potentially some random soldiers besides- you turn everyone loose until it's time to hit the road again. An hour at most, you suspect, and anyone who straggles when you start calling to pack up is getting left behind.

Truly your mercy truly knows no bounds. You gather up a rough rag and a bar of soap, and head just a little up the stream to get cleaned up.

It's only once you're mostly naked and up to your knees in the water that you let some of the tension leave your shoulders. Being in the water is a relief for your overheated skin and sticky gills, even if it's bitingly cold, and you made sure to pick a spot distant enough from everyone else that you won't have to worry about anyone stumbling in on you naked. You lather up the soap and work it into your hair, and unbidden, remember when it was thick enough to just about devour a whole bar on its own. 

You didn't get much bathing done back then, or enough breaks to cut your damn hair on a reasonable enough schedule. Now your hair is cropped short and you've come so far from your own slavery that you can take regular baths and have your own slaves. You've been _gifted_ a slave, even, and a former prince at that.

He's probably never worked a day in his life. The idea of having him around at all is...

The shackles on your wrists itch, sweat trapped under the metal until you push the skin back just enough to let the water through there, too. You still can't find it in you to remove them. You're afraid that if you do, you'll forget the way your hands shook as you broke apart stone in a quarry, the way hunger gnawed ugly and sick through your whole body.

It's distant now, but it's a good reminder to keep.

You dunk your head into the water and hold your breath, rinsing out the soap. When you come up for air, your teeth chatter with cold. Sunlight streams through the leaves of the trees, stinging your eyes when you look up at the sky and you stay in the water with the soap and the rag you'd picked up just scrubbing the worst of the dirt off your skin until you feel decently clean.

You wade back to shore and Kanaya is sitting primly against the trunk of a nearby tree, perched on the edge of a supply crate. She's accompanied by a pair of blindfolded attendants, one holding up a mirror, the other with a lacquered box of some pretty diabolical looking tools that would look more at home in a dentist's office. You know those blindfolds are purely for decoration because once you come close enough to be _visible_ , both attendants flinch.

You shake your hair mostly dry and wipe down with your scarf; bless the inventor of soap or you'd probably be smelling armpit the whole way back to Prospit. "What's the situation back with the rest of the caravan? If you're here, I'm assuming something went horribly wrong, but I don't smell any smoke and I don't hear any screaming."

"Don't think I've forgotten what we were discussing earlier." She says, as she draws a sharp, thin line of kohl over her left eye, ending in a hooked point. You shake your head and mouth her own words to yourself in a way you hope comes off as suitably annoyed with her, but she continues doing her makeup as you finish getting dressed, and as soon as you have your mask in place, she hands her lip brush back to the attendant with the box.

The lock snaps shut with a weirdly ominous click. Some suspicious part of you feels like that might actually mean something as she scoots over on her crate and pats the seat beside her. Somehow that tells her attendants that that's all she'll be needing of them. They bow to her as they slink away in complete silence, and you consider they might have some really promising careers as assassins someday, if she feels like being that kind of countess and if they can get over flinching at the mere sight of you.

She sighs and leans back against the trunk of the tree, and you almost, almost feel yourself start to relax, though you don't take the offered seat. The stream burbles pleasantly, like a fountain. The breeze hardly even stirs the leaves, but is just enough to keep you pleasantly cool.

You're getting some quiet time in nature with a beautiful jadeblood who also happens to be a dear and powerful friend of yours. What more could a troll like you ask for?

Well for starters, you would want that jadeblood to be literally anyone in this moment but Kanaya Maryam.

"Do we _have_ to talk about it?" You ask, waving a hand like you're swatting a fly. You sound like a child and it annoys you _more._ "I wanted to say it was nothing, you know, and I told you it was just the heat. I'd think that should get across that I really don't want to fucking talk about it."

You love her, really, and you're not shy about it. She's clever and cutting and she talks to you like you have something worth saying, which is great because you have a _lot_ to say. S he just also has a knack for sticking her sniffnodes in your business where you really don't want them, like now, where she smiles mildly and half opens one eye to look at you like she's being _subtle_.

"You seem troubled." She says, in the understatement of perhaps the entire history of Prospit.

"Consider, please: You're haranguing me about something I don't want to talk about."

"Ah," She grins, eyes practically flashing before she slides her day lenses onto her nose. "But that you don't want to talk about it _does_ mean you're troubled, doesn't it?"

"If you want to put it that way."

"Honestly, Karkat." She puts her hands on her hips, frowning and looking up at you. It's a rare thing to have Kanaya looking up at anyone, really, you should be proud. "You need to talk to people. Maybe not to me, but do you talk to _anyone_? I certainly hope it's not the prince..."

A suspicious, sidelong glance.

"... Is it?"

You feel a shiver for a moment. Just enough to make the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. You swat the tingling spot like you'd been bitten by a needlefly, and then shake your head.

"Listen. _Listen._ I don't want to talk about it with anyone. Not with you, not with Prince Iyanon, not with Prince Strider. Especially not Prince Strider. I don't know the guy, and just because the Emperor gifted me with him doesn't mean I'm spilling my guts to him." You wind your scarf over the rest of your head and put your helmet on, tying both under your chin. "I'm fine, Kanaya. If I don't seem fine, I'll be fine when we get back to Locah."

She doesn't look convinced. She looks you over with her cheek sucked into her teeth, or maybe she's tasting something sour; you don't fucking know. She's got less of her face covered than you do and you're still having a harder time reading her than she probably has reading you.

She stands and sighs, unfurling a hand fan from somewhere in her skirt and fanning herself with it. The faint smell of her perfume wafts over to you, jasmine and ginger and sandalwood.

"It's a long way back to Locah, and you know you'll probably not get a chance to talk about it once we actually get there..." 

When you don't respond, she huffs and moves to leave, snapping her fan against her wrist; her attendants appear practically out of nowhere on either side of her, as if summoned by the noise. The little glass beads sewn into her shawl catch the light as she turns, and the silky ends trail after her like wisps of green smoke. You catch them talking a little among themselves as the breeze carries their voices to you.

_So repressed, and he doesn't trust anyone, not even me; I don't know what will happen to him but fine, he can deal with that on his own._

Nothing you haven't heard before. She's always been too worried about you.

You wait until their voices fade, and then you follow after them. 

The caravan is, to your great surprise, whole and peaceful when you arrive. The animals are watered and fed, and everyone has been sitting around in the shade, idly talking amongst themselves. When they spot you, they all hurry to get their boots on and get into their assigned positions and posts.

You check the captain's bag while he does his best not to fidget, but you do note his shoulders shaking. Once more to your surprise, you don't find any stolen apples; but you're not discounting that there are probably soldiers among the caravan who've pilfered a few, so you're going to watch closely when it's time for dinner.

"One, two, _hup_." 

Your horse nickers as you hop onto her back, tossing her head and flicking her tail. You turn to watch the Dersite royal family led back to their respective cages, and then the Emperor and his brother into their carriage, and then you look forward.

Kanaya leads her horse to you, her knees almost touching yours, but you refuse to look in her direction as you bark commands to your gathered troops.

"We make it to the next checkpoint by sundown. Loosen your uniform standards for all I care as long as you keep walking; as easy as it would be to let you all run amok, the more organized we are, the sooner you'll be sleeping in a bed instead of on the ground, and the sooner you can trade places with some other unlucky motherfucker who wants to go home. No objections? Forward!"

The whole caravan lurches to life, and soon you leave the stream and the orchard and the hoof-churned, soggy earth behind. Soon you'll be passing through Caldurseys, and then you'll be back in Prospit, though it'll be days before you get back to the capital and you can't say you're looking forward to that at all.


	8. Kanaya Maryam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It Just Keeps Happening
> 
> Anyway I hope people are still interested in this story. It's a pretty ambitious project, turns out, and I wasn't prepared for how much the POV changes and arrangements would drain me. Approximately none of this chapter turned out as I thought it would.

It's the fifth day into your return trip to Prospit and soon you'll be at the edge of the deep forest that surrounds the Eastern half of Derse. The border itself is still a ways beyond that, through the mountain pass between Derse proper and the remains of what was once the Alternian seat of power, and then there's a long way before anything even related to Prospitian rule is recognizable, but the forest is what all of you should worry about first.

Just thinking about all that land you'll be crossing makes you really, really miss the town you'd passed through. You miss the quaint little buildings, most of them intact even, and you miss the novelty of sleeping in a Dersite inn. It was somewhat eerie seeing the locals so subdued, nothing at all like the people of the capital, but there was something exciting about this reminder that you were so far from home and with so much to see. While the city had been uncomfortable at best and outright hostile at worst in terms of exploration and community, the townsfolk were much more accommodating, and far more willing to show you the sights, the sounds, points of interest...

Oh, and blood. New blood is a great way to quite literally take in the local flavor. You also needed to give your poor attendants a break; you're not a monster, despite what some believe of the countess Kanaya Maryam.

Anyway...

There are three outposts in that forest now, and as you come to approach the nearest one (though perhaps there will still be a day of travel before you actually reach it), the fields and orchards and loosely connected villages grow sparser until you're walking across damp, brushy moorlands. The rain doesn't seem to have passed this area at least; a blessing of the summer heat bearing down on you, keeping the ground relatively firm, or the wagons and carriages would need a lot more help getting through.

You think of how sweltering it is out here, on your horse, in the loose drapery of your riding clothes, and you wonder how much your newest acquisition must be suffering in the _cart_ they're keeping her in.

Really! She'd been given a bath and a change of clothes just two days ago, and you still don't think it will be enough. You're only a countess, but you're _positive_ your slaves deserve better conditions than _that_. You're not entirely sure who to voice your complaints to, either; or rather, you're not sure how to voice your complaints to Karkat and have him actually take heed of them. You can practically hear him already, _bluh bluh not a luxury outing bluh bluh can't underestimate them after last time bluh,_ as if he doesn't disapprove exactly as much as you do.

What's the point of getting him into the position he's in if he's not going to throw his weight around a little? For goodness' sake.

And you _so dearly_ want Rose Lalonde to like you. You don't want to come on too strongly; the situation just isn't right for that. It's not the right _time_ to come on strongly.

But it _is_ starting to seem like you'll need to be more hands-on regardless. Alright. You can do as much. You'll have to plan it a little, but you didn't get this far yourself without a little forethought in turn.

~!~

It's after dinner, and you're loathe to consider what you may have been eating; it's not that you're not starving and reduced to eating something unnameable, but at this juncture, it's best to conserve supplies, and most of the food this evening came from whatever could be trapped on the moor. You can vaguely identify some kind of game fowl, but only just, and you're still not sure.

The night here is still humid, and therefore far warmer than it would be in the desert. You exit your tent and the breeze isn't even enough to tickle the fine fuzz at the tips of your horns. It's enough to sway your nightgown around your ankles, though, as you make your way across the camp towards the single, lonely lantern hanging from Rose's cart.

~!~

Something is amiss. Something tells you to turn back. 

You straighten your back and swallow your fear. You're a troll and a rainbowdrinker, and the dark should hold no fear for you.

~!~

You will admit to finally feeling a chill as you approach and hear Rose speaking, though. Her voice is garbled, and shadows flicker on the inside of her cart, blacker than the shadows out where you stand. You get the distinct feeling you've come upon something you shouldn't; that you're _seeing_ what should not be _seen_.

Are these shadows what kept Rose Lalonde company this entire trip? A dreadful thought, cold like drowned fingers closing wetly over your throat.

You are reminded, very clearly, of the abundant rumors of Derse's witches.

When she turns to look at you, you stop breathing. You're not sure if she's even really seeing you, in that strange glow where the shadows writhe around her. She's a terror to behold, the stark white of her hair and eyes, skin like the water at the bottom of a well. She is terror itself. She's beautiful.

And then... it all stops. She blinks, twice, eyes properly separated into whites and lavender irises again. You realize you're glowing, and the light reaches her even where you stand, and her skin is just that, skin, not still, black water where something glides just beneath the surface.

You also take note that she's frowning at you. Not even gently, either; she looks at you like you've walked in on her in the midst of a murder. Have you? You don't think so; you don't smell the taint of dead blood anywhere near her. Of course, that's not always a sure thing...

"Countess Maryam." She smiles at you, sultry and inviting as the setting sun.

You cough into your hand as subtly as you can, clearing your throat and smiling back. It takes a little focus, but you force the glow of your skin back down and smile back at her, curtsying. She nods to you like a queen, and you think perhaps in the corners of your eyes, you can still see the remnants of her shadowy court.

"To what do I owe the-" (You don't understand that word,) "-of this visit?" She asks. Her eyes, brilliantly lavender, scrutinize you with the intensity of a magnifying glass, and if you were having a hard time finding words _earlier_ then it's an impossible, legendary feat _now._ Your fingers twist idly in the gauzy fabric of your nightgown, stirred slightly by the evening breeze. Somewhere a little ways off, you hear a horse nickering and someone trying to calm it.

You suppose you'll have to work with the obvious.

"You were..." You really should practice more, you're doing your best but it hardly seems enough when she speaks so well to you, the grunts and glottal stops of Dersite turned something soft and melodious as she uses them. You frown. "The shadows. You talk to them. Why?"

She blinks at you with a crease forming on her brow, and you think perhaps you've said the wrong thing, or you weren't clear. A moth flutters around one of the lanterns hanging from her carriage, its diaphanous wings making the faint light flicker slightly across her face.

You walk closer, lifting the edge of your skirts so you don't trip over them or get them caught in the weeds. Goodness knows you probably already have burrs clinging to the hems. When Rose meets your eyes again, you're standing in front of the door, separated from her by little more than a pane of wood and a deadbolt that she can't reach.

(Could you walk in there and sit beside her, perhaps? Or would that give her too much opportunity, as Karkat said, to escape?)

(You want, dearly, to risk it, but you're not brave enough.)

"You made shadows, and you spoke to them." It's a little awkward, but you cast a little shadow puppet against the far wall, the simplest you know, a butterfly. "Like that, but they spoke to you. Why?"

She shrugs. "I needed company. Shadows aren't nearly as charming as you, though. Would you stay a while?"

You feel heat creep up your cheeks again, but you nod to her, and walk a little closer, close enough that you can put your foot up on the little step that leads into the carriage itself. 

She smiles at you, that strange, dusky smile of hers. "Care to sit?"

Well, it's not that you don't feel like she's lying about just wanting company, but you're not sure you have the words to ask her for more, so you turn your back to her and slide your back down the door, sitting on the step. The night breeze tousles your hair, and crickets chirp all around you, filling the night with white noise. You're sitting just far enough that you're at least pretty sure you'd notice if she tried to drop the chain around her wrists over your neck.

The moon hangs bright and full overhead, the same color as Rose Lalonde's eyes.

You're sure even now it shines gold over the Prospitian capital, and floats silvery and still over the ocean far beyond that.

"They tell me about things to come." Rose says, amid the crickets and the night birds. "The shadows I mean. They told me you would get me out of my cell, though... I didn't think it would be like this."

She laughs, bright as cut glass and just as sharp.

"Funny how that works out."

"You see the future?" You don't believe her, not really, but you don't want to go to sleep, and... even if you don't believe _her_ , you believe you saw her speaking to shadows, and some part of you remembers the whispers in her cell.

"I don't." She pauses, for a moment, and then her smile turns wry and a little twisted. "But they do. They do more than that, too. I can borrow their eyes and look far beyond where I am at any given time, into the past, or into the future, or far beyond this cell." She wrinkles her nose and scrunches up her brow. "Though as you can _plainly_ see, it's up to me to do anything about it."

"I... see." You resist the urge to turn your head and see if there's anything leering over your shoulder, mouthing words that only Rose can hear. You're pretty sure you wouldn't see anything if you did, but, you know, on the off-chance that you _did..._

"Would you like me to tell you about your future?" You can hear the smile in her voice, a certain cruelty in the way she forms the words. "I'm not going to get much use out of precognitive abilities while I'm in a cage. They may as well benefit _someone._ "

That has your attention.

She has _that_ much on you. You're dying to know more, about the shadows and the future and the shape of your fate, and Rose Lalonde herself. That she knows you'd be interested in hearing about it, that you have some inkling of believing her when she says it- that really does intrigue you.

But also, Kanaya Maryam is nobody's fool.

"That's very nice." You say, more so you can carefully measure out your words than because you think it's nice at all. "But I don't believe you. Not yet. You did not show me anything, I see only..."

You hear a rustle behind you, presumably as she sits back to back with you, and a yawn. "Do tell? What might I do to convince you?"

"Hmm. I see only a shadow. But there are many shadows. You did not show me anything special about _your_ shadows, even if you talk to them." Do you think she'll see through the lie? You certainly hope not, especially since you weren't even sure how much of it was grammatically correct. Something might slip through if you don't know what's coming from your own mouth. Certainly, you saw nothing remarkable about the shadows themselves, you barely saw them. Rose herself is of much more interest to you. "I do not see anything that you tell me is true. Why should I believe you see the future?"

You feel that same prickle of cold in your horns now, like a breath. You can't resist looking up this time, and this time you see nothing but the sky, and the lantern bobbing in a breeze that you don't feel. Your tongue dries up in your mouth. Rose has gone silent, but the flickering light of the lantern has turned dull and strange.

You stay quiet. She doesn't make a sound for a few heartbeats more, and more of those prickles go up your spine. Hurriedly, you stand, twisting your skirt in your fingers while your heart thrums in your chest like the wingbeats of a sparrow, too fast, too shallow, and yet you're soaring off the ground. Metaphorically, that is, or at least you're still steady on your feet despite the rushing in your ears.

"You don't want to see the future because you don't believe in it anyway." She says, so sure it turns the air leaden with promise, heavy with omens. "What you want is something much more immediate."

You straighten your back and turn your head up as imperiously as you can.

"What do I want, then?" If she can name it, maybe you'll believe her. Maybe you halfway do already: You're standing here in the dark, waiting for a woman in a cage to tell you what you already know. You must be getting it from Karkat.

Her eyes meet yours through the bars of her cage. You feel another flutter in your chest.

"You want me." She says. Her lips draw into a pursed, dark line. "That's why you came out here tonight. But don't you know? No proper witch gives out magic for free."

You feel the words on your tongue before you say them, quick and sharp; and they almost drop from your lips without you noticing but you catch them before that.

You'd almost asked her to name a price, but that would be the same as admitting she's right, wouldn't it?

Instead, you smile at her, watching the expression on her face as carefully as you can, before curtsying. She doesn't look too happy about that, indeed; she doesn't look too happy about your reaction at all.

"You are clever, and tricky, and you know what _you_ want. We will talk more tomorrow, and maybe I will believe you." You say, as mildly as you can, as clearly as you can. "Goodnight, Rose."

"As to you, Countess Maryam." She says. Her expression doesn't change, but you still feel like neither of you got what you wanted out of this conversation. 

You pick your way back to your tent, your heart still hammering like you’ve run a mile. Falling asleep has never felt more impossible, though you do your best, and if you feel a chill in the night air like a ghostly hand across the nape of your neck, you simply growl to yourself and pull your blanket over your head.


	9. Dirk Strider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOO This took a while.
> 
> Lots of stuff going on here, feel free to ask questions if anything is unclear!
> 
> Note that the location names are all based on planets from homestuck, some just jumbled up or stuck through google translate and *then* jumbled up.
> 
> Mormuntypta = mormant kripton (Romanian) = grave (tombs) and krypton  
> Liktregen = licht regen (German) = light and rain  
> San Dzephir = sand zephyr = sand and zephyr  
> Caldurseys = caldura ceas (Romanian)= heat and clock(work)  
> Locah = Land of Crypts and Helium
> 
> There'll be more later, these are just the ones in this chapter.

Your name is Dirk Strider, and just a week or two ago you were the King of Derse. Right now you're being checked over by a stuttering doctor for bug bites, like a dog. You're considering renaming yourself Spot, really, you're going to do it just to take the satisfaction from whoever is going to try and demean you with it.

There's soapmongers and traders and "soapmongers" mingling with the soldiers today, drawn to the caravan no doubt by foreign uniforms, the chance to drive up prices for comfort. One looked curiously at you as you were led to the town physician, but she didn't move to help you with the soldiers all over; there's more profit to be made in the tents with lice combs and scented powders and a warm hand besides, and you doubt this far away from the capital that she would recognize a fallen king.

_(Or if she does, then she has even less reason to take pity on you.)_ But that's one of your worst voices talking, you can ignore him. You've managed to ignore him through the forest, you'll manage to ignore him here, when he'll be even less helpful than he was back in Derse.

A fly buzzes past your ear. You don't bother swatting at it.

"A little undernourished, and, dehydrated; some flea bites, but no signs of disease or, um, infestation." There's a strange giddiness in the way the doctor says it, somewhere between fear and curiosity. His eyes sneak glances at yours through the mirror on the desk, weighing whether or not the rumors are true. "The bites, um, should be washed. And dressed. As soon as possible, actually, to promote proper healing."

"Of course." A moment passes where he puts his tools away, and you clear your throat. He doesn't look at you again, though his cow-like ears swivel towards you under the long arches of his horns. "Thank you."

"It's no trouble. Please."

You're at least allowed to wash and dress yourself, though there are guards just outside the walls and posted in the narrow doors and windows of the clinic. You sigh and put your clothes on, relieved, at least, that this town you didn't even know _existed_ was charted onto the route between Derse and Caldurseys, and while the caravan slots out tired soldiers and waters horses and changes linens, you're given the opportunity to bathe.

It's not the palace baths, of course. It's a basin of cold water and a ladle, but the soap sellers know what they're doing; the lather works creamy and sweet-smelling under your hands, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you don't stink of animals and hay. The herbal salve the doctor gave you for your bites soothes the itching immediately.

You're not sure if that's entirely a good thing; without the itch to steadily drive you mad, and without being trapped in a hay cart, you have the opportunity to think about the journey ahead and the journey behind you. The Prospitians either have some strange trick in the way they build their wheels, or being trolls means they can drive themselves inhumanly far, or perhaps you simply miscalculated how much land area is between Derse and Prospit, because you could have sworn that a week was too quick a time for you to arrive here in the little town of San Dzephir.

Or has Derse simply been so isolated in all this time that you'd grown up and come into the crown blind to Prospitian rule? 

It's not like you, you think, to miss something so obvious. It leaves a knot of unease deep in your gut.

You finish washing up, resisting the urge to claw yourself to ribbons and instead smear the salve across the little bumps on your shins and forearms. Even the clothes you've been given to replace your old ones are unfamiliar to you. The fabric is too soft, too thin; it wouldn't last you through a hard rain, let alone a winter. Have you come so far that they don't worry about winters here?

It's awkward waiting around in here, but you haven't had the chance to properly stretch your legs in too long, and you're not looking forward to sitting in the cart halfway swinging hard between bored and terrified out of your wits again, even if they're replacing the hay with something more presentable. You watch as the doctor leaves you behind a curtain, watch his shadow on the canvas as he speaks to another soldier; actually, come to think of it, are you sure these are soldiers?

Prospit isn't known for magic like Derse is, but it's a chilling enough thought. You've built your own automatons before, breathed life into them like nothing else. Sometimes these soldiers, in their featureless wood-and-iron masks, make you doubt.

The doctor parts the curtain again, steps in, and turns to you.

"I'm, I'm sorry." He says, and you know trolls have grey complexions by nature but he looks even more ashen than he should. His lips look drawn and his eyes look heavy. You can't really blame him. "They, uh, they want you to go with them. The Emperor is, I mean, uh, he wants you."

_Yeah, I figured he did._ He wasn't exactly subtle, making sure you bathed every morning; maybe you'd appreciate it more if you weren't on the road to what's looking less like an execution and more like a different kind of conquest with every passing day. "Does he want to talk?"

"I... would presume so?" You probably shouldn't be giving him such a hard time. The doctor gulps, looking over his shoulder where the shadow of a stiff-backed soldier is still standing. "I'm not really, uh, really used to dealing with armies, or royalty."

If you were in any mood to appreciate humor, maybe you would have smiled; as it stands, even when he wilts, you don't. You finish buttoning your shirt and tying your belt, in at least as close an approximation as you can to how you would have worn it back home. The silky fabric and loose trousers feel too much like you're naked from the waist down, except where it brushes against you and you feel even more naked.

"What's your name?" You ask him, and he's so surprised that he just blurts it out.

"Tavros Nitram. Um."

"Dirk Strider." You let the faintest suggestion of a smile ease the tension in your face, just enough that a stranger might not think you're faking it; mostly because now that he knows your name, he looks like he's just about to shit himself. You clap him on the shoulder and murmur into his ear. "I beg you this. To every traveller that ever passes your door, tell them I was killed when Prospit took Mormuntypta."

You don't look back at him as you step out from behind the curtain. That soldier manages to look impatient even with a mask on, as he ties your hands behind your back and pushes you forward.

~!~

You're blindfolded before you're led into the Emperor's carriage. It's bigger than it has any right to be, just by the sound of the wheels creaking and how high you have to raise your foot to get on the step. When you're pushed the rest of the way, you can't even use your hands to stop yourself from falling- but you fall against someone anyway, sturdy and warm.

You hear a swear that you presume is in Prospitian, and a nervous titter. The blindfold is eased off your face.

Fuck, they literally just threw you at him. These people have no respect, and apparently no worry that you'll escape and kill the Emperor yourself. You could slip out of these ropes easy, like they didn't even _try_ to get them tight enough to hold you.

But you look in his eyes and think, how could you? It would be a shame to, a waste, a _crime_ even to you.

_(No, wait, that isn't what you-)_

He smiles at you and it's like honey filling your soul. 

~!~

You're floating. You're still in that carriage, but you're pretty sure you're existing a little to the left right now.

~!~

( _Well this sucks.)_

~!~

( _Took you long enough to come_ back.)

You agree with him- with yourself, for once, and you're still not sure you're back. You're staring down the God-Emperor of the Golden Land and he just looks like a normal twenty-something; you know, aside from the Prospitian military regalia and that he's drop-dead gorgeous. You’ve been staring for what feels like at least fifteen minutes.

You don't know if he really is gorgeous. You're starting to suspect there's something besides good looks and charm here. The way he looks at you, sideways and nervous, that only makes you suspect it more.

_(Think it'd be worth it for me to try and get us out of it? Ruins the surprise, and goodness knows we have little enough advantage as it is, b_ _ut this is starting to look like one of Rose's more sordid publications, you know, the ones she wants us all to pretend we don't know are hers.)_

_(But that's not the issue here, is it, Dirk? I, for one, think caution should've been blown halfway to Liktregen by now.)_

"I'm sorry."

For a moment you think he's somehow heard you thinking that out loud, or he's apologizing for what he's about to do next. He looks pained. (It stings in a way you don't understand, and you bristle against the pain.) He says something else in Prospitian, more to himself than to you, before looking at you again like he could peel back every secret under your skin with enough time.

Maybe he could. You don't want to find out. You affect as much disdain as you physically can, which would be a formidable amount even if you were still blindfolded.

"Really, now?" Your voice is hoarse. You cough, and he reaches for a decanter of water, but you press yourself back up against the wall with a glare and he slowly puts it back down. "And what the fuck are you trying to apologize for, hm?"

There's a lot he could apologize for. Forcing you to step down from the throne, for one. Having an army tear through your nation. Locking you and your family in cages like animals.

Absolutely none of it would be solved with a simple apology. You don't have it in you to forgive him, this strange infatuation be damned.

"Well?"

He looks sheepish, like he's apologizing for something inconsequentially small and is only now realizing how stupid it is, in the grand scheme of things. Or maybe you're giving him too much credit. Maybe he's just trying to figure out what he's sorry for.

( _Don't underestimate him._ )

It's more likely he didn't understand what you said, or he's trying to phrase his answer as carefully as he can. You try not to enjoy making him squirm too much, but only for a moment; you're petty and bitter and exhausted, and it's easy to lean into that as he looks away in what you _deeply_ hope is shame and regret. Real classy, that.

You study him a little more as he goes over a bowl piled high with fresh fruit, so brightly colored that they don't look real. A few you recognize, but quinces and pears are out of season, aren't they? The rest are just downright alien.

He puzzles over them for a bit before coming back to you with strawberries. Five of them, the biggest and reddest you've ever seen in your life. They'd be dry and sour in Derse this time of year, but these look juicy enough to bruise under their own weight.

He still hasn't answered your question. 

Maybe he's smart enough to know there isn't a good answer. You're pretty sure trying to gain your favor with strawberries is even dumber than that, though; and you let him know as much by looking up at him just to narrow your eyes until he starts to sweat.

On the First King's _mummified dick_ , this man is gorgeous. Your eyes are drawn to the way his slightly too-large upper teeth gnaw at his plump lips, and you hate how an imperfection like that only makes you want to kiss him. He picks up one of the strawberries and rolls it around in his fingers, checking it for dents and bruises.

"Everything." He says. He shakes his head. You scowl harder, but you feel the expression soften when he looks into your eyes again. You try to think of things to compare them to, and then stop yourself, crushing the thought like a beetle underfoot.

( _Beetles are green._ )

Shut up!

"I want..." He looks away for a long, heavy pause. There's a break in the shimmering fog that's descended on your thoughts, first a crack and then a sharp, sudden clarity, and in that moment of clarity you realize that you could just. You could kill him. You really could, his beauty be damned. You flex your fingers and reach for that magic in your blood, and that shapeless echo of yourself coalesces into something solid and you _pull_.

Hal materializes in front of the Emperor, lunging forward, and _freezes_.

He doesn't even look surprised, lying on his back with Hal straddling him, with Hal's hands around his throat. He looks up at him with the kind of unconcerned blankness that looks like the physical manifestation of "I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed."

And then Hal disappears.

You stare at the space Hal was just a moment ago and reach for your magic again, but there's nothing inside you to grab hold of. Or, there is, but it slips between the cracks of your mental fingers like smoke, or wet silk.

"Right, let's... try that again." The Emperor looks at you, lips drawn flat. He bows his head apologetically, and offers you a strawberry on a plate. "I just. I needed to talk to you, and this was the only way I knew how. Please? Just for a while." He gulps, like he really isn't sure what's going on. "No magic. No tricks. Just you and me and the next couple of hours until Iyanon comes back. I want to talk to you and, and maybe _try_ to figure out what we're going to do when we get to Locah."

You're still reeling at the memory of Hal disappearing in all but a puff of smoke. Something's gone horribly, horribly wrong. 

But his words sink in and you feel a flush creeping up your neck, across your face, tinged with sudden fear and a kind of heat that fills you with unforgiving shame. _What to do with you?_ He _has_ to be fucking with you; there's no way he actually did keep you alive on a whim.

Is there?

When you don't answer, he picks up the strawberry like he's remembering your hands are still tied, and brings it up to your mouth like he's feeding a pet. You let your jaw fall slack as he presses the strawberry to your lips, pushing the fruit past your teeth when you refuse to pull it in. 

He frowns, petulantly, like a child. "Please say _something_."

His thumb is still pressed into your lower lip. You snap your head forward and sink your teeth in as hard as you can.


	10. Dave Strider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was gonna be a DaveKat chapter but I didn't want to limit each ship to interactions with just their ship so it's mostly John and Dave talking. Some things said here that will be notable later, though.
> 
> Fun worldbuilding fact: Derse's religion is largely ancestral worship, and the royal family claims direct ties to the legendary First King of Derse, which is (as legend goes) where their Blessings come from. (As opposed to the belief in Prospit that while the royal family will *usually* get Blessings, a Blessing can be bestowed on anyone by Skaia if they are to become an important figure in history. Many people have claimed to have Blessings or been written into legend as having Blessings due to their achievements.)
> 
> That Dave is composing poetry about him is basically him composing a prayer, before it got cut off.

_You_ have nothing to do with anything going on in the Imperial carriage. In fact, besides the inside of your cage and the shitty acoustics of it, you're not really focusing on much.

You, Dave Strider, are blissfully unaware of the world around you. Which is to say you're lost in your own head again, but that might be for the best in your current situation. Away with the fairies, people used to call it, except fairies aren't fucking real. The situation you're in is _horrifyingly_ real, but as long as nobody bothers you, you can ignore it.

You're humming to yourself, tapping a beat along the floor of your cage. It's muffled now that they've filled it with clean cloth instead of old hay, and you don't really mind wearing what basically amounts to silk pajamas; the less unpleasant sensory input you've got, the better for your creative process. 

Where were you? You go over the previous verses. Somewhere they called San Dzephir, and it won't be long before you reach Caldurseys, which is weird because you're pretty sure the trip between Mormuntypta and Lockverk is a lot bumpier than that, and you weren't exactly headed towards Lockverk to begin with. You work that in, in your attempt to keep track of where you are. It's a shame nobody's around to hear you laying down these verses; you think they're pretty dope.

_I heard a hymn or warning prayed  
in Caldurseys that thusly goes  
The First King rose from his repose  
one summer night, beneath the sea  
of catacombs, and walked from tomb  
to shore as though his death had meant  
far less to him than sinking ships  
and kingdoms lost; he rose and claimed  
his lordship then, upon the foam,  
the salt and spray, the rocks and rooks  
that watched in awe at his ascent  
towards the ruin-_

Your beat is interrupted when you see the shadow blocking the already scant light that comes through your door. You think, what, it's time for lunch already? Your Imperially mandated potty-break? You don't know what to tell them, you've tried again and again to say you can't piss on command but most of them don't speak Dersite so you guess you'll just have to hope they're bringing you a _lot_ of water.

You don't see a masked soldier with their face in the bars when you scoot out of the way, though; it's the prince, looking down at you behind a pair of specs that make him look downright harmless. You're aware he's _not_ harmless, but that face just looks so... mundane. Strong jaw, sure, but you'd expect him to be an accountant or something.

"You were... what was that, reciting poetry to yourself?" He smiles like you're having conversation over canapés, instead of a conqueror chatting up a prisoner of war. "I liked it. Don't think I've ever heard it before, but that might be cultural difference. I haven't had much chance to check out Dersite art; you understand, right?"

"Uh." You're a little too stunned to muster up your usual deluge of words, at least for a moment. Then you square your shoulders a little, a smirk that only just pulls at the corner of your mouth sliding into place, a defiantly cocked eyebrow rising over one eye. "Alright, I'm not a doctor by any means but I'm pretty sure this is some kind of sick joke right here, asshole."

He raises an eyebrow like he's mirroring you. It hits you after a split second's contemplation that he was speaking in perfect Dersite. _Shit._

"Oh." Oh? "Oh!"

He laughs, putting a knuckle to his mouth like a lady might with an embroidered fan. "Sorry, that took me a little."

"Uh-huh." You shake your head, trying to look over his shoulder, but he's tall and broad enough despite his boyish face and vaguely coquettish mannerisms that it's actually pretty difficult, the son of a bitch. That he's blocking your view leaves a chill down your spine. "Are we in Prospit yet or did you have something else to bother me about?"

"On the border of Caldurseys, so I can definitely say I just wanted conversation." 

You already knew that, but you were still hoping he might say otherwise. He watches you, face mostly shadowed just from the contrast between the shade of your cage's roofing and the oversaturated sunlight beyond.

"Bullshit." You lean back into the linens and reed-stuffed cushions you've been given. His expression looks mildly surprised, and then mildly troubled, his brows turning inwards even though he's still smiling.

"I don't suppose that has another meaning I'm not familiar with in Dersite?" He asks. You glare back, lips pursed. "No? Well, alright, I can understand not wanting to talk, to me at least. I'll tell Roxy you seem alright."

"Roxy?" You see the ghost of a grin in the corner of his mouth as he turns around, and you can't stand up fast enough. "Hey, hey- you son of a bitch, _hey,_ don't just drop that on me and walk away! You were talking to Roxy?"

He pauses, just for a second.

"You said her name, and you speak Dersite, you- are you-"

Then he takes a step, then another; easy, long-legged strides. You grip the bars in the window so hard you can feel every individual flake of rust beneath your fingers.

It's not just Roxy. You've spent too long sitting quietly in this cage, guarded by masked soldiers who don't understand a word you're saying, with nothing but notches carved into the walls with a rusty nail to help you map the distance you've gone, no voice but your own to keep you sane. You're _starving_ to have someone to talk to, for any word on your family. Even foxes walk into traps when they're hungry enough.

You gulp, face pressed to the bars, cold sweat sliding down the back of your neck.

"Come back here. Please." Your voice comes out brittle, soft as new snow. It doesn't sound like you anymore. You laugh, in that incredulous, defeated way a man laughs when he's about to make a bad gamble and he knows it. "Fine. Fine, I've got nothing better to do; let's shoot the breeze from here to wherever it is we're going. Maybe you can keep up, maybe you'll end up like the Duke of Guzcion and chop your ear off so you won't have to listen. I'll pickle it and wear it around my neck; it'll be a great conversational piece. _Please_."

"I don't think we'll need to talk that much." He says, and he turns around and comes back at last. You could cry. You manage not to. "But yes, I spoke to Roxy."

"What did she say? How is she?" You run your fingers through your hair, recently washed but you know it'll be damp and grimy again soon. Damn the heat out here, even when you're dressed in a nightshirt and some ridiculous tent pretending to be a pair of pants.

"She's doing better now that we've had the town doctor check up on her." Some part of you is a little relieved at that, though a more selfish part of you just feels tired and sore, the thought of Roxy bringing to mind how much you miss her dreaming tonics. You find yourself pressing closer to the bars as he keeps going. "I guess if you don't want to entertain me though, I do have one request."

Even where you are, even with... the literal second prince of Prospit, even then you have to fight your urge to say something derisive.

You say instead, "What."

"Can you tell me about her? As a person."

He can't be serious. There's no fucking way. "Are you serious?"

He huffs, looking remarkably less and less regal with every passing moment, which is pretty hard because he didn't look particularly regal earlier either; he still manages it, though, and you're still confused.

"Are you... just straight up asking me for information? Stuff that you can use on Roxy?" You narrow your eyes. "I said I'd talk but I meant more like shooting the shit about the soldiers and what they might be saying behind my back, and I know I don't exactly have a choice but you couldn't have segued into that with less elegance if you'd tried."

"It's not my best work, I know." He shrugs. "But I wanted to know more about her. The four of you are going to be slaves, so we're going to learn all about each other eventually, anyway. I think it's better if I make this easier on her."

It feels like the hands of the First King have closed around your throat, slowly squeezing out life and air. Actually you're just pissed, but you do your best to channel the palace seer when you keep your voice even and icy.

"Did I hear that right? You said we'd be slaves?"

"Were you _still_ under the impression we were going to kill you?" He blinks, looking genuinely confused, and then makes a face and says something in Prospitian. You don't know what it is, though you could pretty easily supply some other choice words for it, so you settle on telling yourself he just said "nasty". He looks almost sheepish, ashamed, if that's possible. "It _was_ the plan at first, but we're keeping you alive, as is the will  of the Emperor and the will of Skaia."

The will of Skaia, whatever the Hell it really is, only makes you think of the mass pyres, of news of dead soldiers, of Dirk forced to kneel or see you slaughtered. It feels like a sick joke, coming to this. "So we're be your bedwarmers and cupbearers after getting this far. Cool. I'm sorry if I sound like my brother when I say this but I don't see how that's going to go well at all."

"I agree." 

You blink.

"Which is why I've been saying this the whole time. It's crazy! The heirs of Derse kept alive as slaves? Surely anyone can see how that could go horribly wrong?" He laughs, bright and sharp as sunlight on glass. His teeth are a little too big for his mouth, aren't they? Rabbitlike, almost. How harmless he looks only makes it all more horrifying. "But that's what we're dealing with, and for your sake and ours, I'm trying to keep things running as smoothly as possible. Both publicly and to your new employers, as disappointing as that might be."

You dwell on that, casting your eyes down to the little flecks of rust staining your hands. Your fingers aren't so tight on the bars anymore, but you're still aware of them, of where you are and why. You gulp.

"Alright." You say instead. "So you're telling me I have to tell you what you want to know so you can keep Roxy alive. You want to know what to _avoid_ doing, right?"

"Yes, exactly." He nods, propping up his chin in one hand. "You're the expert here, and I can arrange for you to get assigned someone comfortable enough if you tell me what you like. What do you have to say to me?"

"He have no more words for you."

You blink. That was in Dersite just now, grating and heavily accented, and it's been a hot minute but you're pretty sure you know that growl and glower you're getting from behind a mask and a pair of nubby little horns over there.

The Prospitian General looks at you with something like pity, and then something like rage, before turning it on the prince. You feel like _Dirk_ would be shitting himself getting a look like that, and this guy just stands there with a faintly perturbed smile on his mouth.

"Nice of you to join us, Karkat." He says, and you see his shoulders square just slightly. "I didn't know you spoke Dersite."

Poorly, too; his accent cuts into the words like an axe blade. You could swear you hear his frown under that creepy fucking mask.

"Is not nice for me; you are getting fucking spy hands in him. Not do that when I fucking look! You!" He turns to you, and while you resist the urge to back up in your cage- you wanted to get out of here, but that seems like a bad idea while Karkat is yelling at both of you- "You tell him no words?"

"Uh." It takes you a bit to realize he's actually talking to you. You really, really wish you had your shades right about now. They're probably going to be sold off as an exotic Dersite trinket, ugh; but never mind that, you raise your hands with the palms outwards and pray that it's a sign of submission in Prospit, too. "Yeah, he got nothing out of me, tight as a fucking lock over here; no spy shit, promise."

He turns his glare back to the prince and you breathe. They say something in Prospitian, back and forth, looks like you're not part of the conversation anymore, and then with a nod to Karkat and to you, the prince takes his leave.

Karkat doesn't.

"Ass hole." He says, red eyes narrowed at you. "I do not know what you tell him. No words?"

"No words." He barely comes up to the bars and yet a second ago he carried himself like he was six feet tall. You peer down at him, the noonday sun shadowing his face under the roof of your carriage.

"Good. He is..." You're getting really tired of these guys saying things in Prospitian at you as if you can tell what the fuck they're saying, but you get the feeling that phrase was probably best left up to the spirits and the sea so this time you say nothing. He looks at you again and shakes his head. You're not sure how much Dersite he actually knows, but if it's a chance to talk to someone that isn't the prince again, you're taking it.

"So what was..." You gesture, vaguely. "All that? With the prince? I'd have thought you'd _want_ me to get as much dirty laundry out to you guys as possible, you know, the stuff you can use against us, but. It sounded like you didn't want me to do that?"

He laughs like the sound of an unsheathing blade.

"Yes. No. I will handle him later; it is my thing to be worry about." He says. "You tell him no words, so I think you are not so stupid."

"Thanks?" You're not sure how _you_ feel about that. But now you're wondering... "Why did he back off when you told him to? He outranks you. Why did he listen to you?"

"He is my friend." Your stomach drops, like you've swallowed the sea, as he pushes his mask off to get a better look at you. "He stay away from that is what is mine."


End file.
